


back, back, back (to the past)

by Omgitsnothing1



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - America, Angst, Child Neglect, Childhood Friends, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, OOC! Han Jisung, Quiet Han Jisung, Slight Use of English Names, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-01-15 22:06:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 50,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21260393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omgitsnothing1/pseuds/Omgitsnothing1
Summary: Han Jisung is four years old when he moves from Incheon to Los Angeles.





	1. prologue

Han Jisung is four years old when he moves from Incheon to Los Angeles, and he understands why. 

It's because Incheon is a story of wilting flowers and ripped contracts; it is the press of soju on cashmere sweaters and cherry red lipstick stains on married skin—it's because that city holds his mother's shattered fairy tale, his father's tears of deceit. 

But, in America, there are only stacks of blank paper to be filled out and turned in. And in a new company, flawed manuscripts could be discarded and forgotten. 

Their life in South Korea could be discarded and forgotten. 

.

.

.

Jisung sits in the back of a white Lexus whose crystalline mirrors shine like diamonds, his small hands folded over his lap, pulling at each other anxiously. In the front two seats, his parents bicker with a violent passion. Their jaws clench and another exchange of bitter remarks crush and crumble between them. 

With a wheezing chest, the toddler nibbles at his upper lip and waits like he's been instructed, like he's been expected to. He's years above his age. He can speak articulate sentences and can count to twenty without stuttering. He can lock and twist a doorknob without aid.

He's faster, brighter, and keener than most and he comprehends all that a child shouldn't: mommies and daddies don't yell at each other as though their lungs are breaking from the nauseous pressure. They don't cry as though each staggered breath aches through every pore of their being. They don't suffer—not like this. 

His head rests on the curve of his seat belt. He peers out the window, letting his eyes graze the blurry light brown haze of mix-matched houses and looming trees which are too short to cover the phosphorescence searing into his visage. It's a mindless wonder, and he traces the smudged outlines to numb the ceaseless lethargy of a child. 

They pass by a sunset yellow building before the car slows to a halt. 

Without permission, Jisung unbuckles his seat belt and shimmies out of his booster seat. His feet plant on the fragmented pavement with a soft thud. The scent of lemongrass and the smoky smell of burnt barbecue swirl around him while sun rays beat down on the empty streets with heated clubs. The air tasted of fireworks and watermelon—the true summer experience and it is only the beginning of February. 

Screeching voices pierce through the warm air, breaking the intimacy of the colored neighborhood. 

Jisung steps back and watches as his parents shout over the hood of the car. 

“As if it’s my fault we didn’t get the house we wanted!” his mother shrieks like sharp nails down the longest chalkboard. Mother is scarlet, like a squashed tomato, sharp nose scrunched tight, sucking in the rest of her features.

His father fumes. The midnight of his coarse hair broods, shifting with unease—a prelude to another string of curses. “If you hadn’t waited last fucking minute maybe we could’ve sealed the deal, but you were too busy drowning yourself with vodka shots, you—” He spits out a derogatory term that would’ve left grandma gasping.

His mother’s pinched face flattens with shock, and her dark eyes light with fire. “How dare you accuse me of—”

“—it's not like it's a stretch!”

And it begins again. Like all fights, they explode in sharp fractals. Like all fights, they are not the only victim.

Jisung tunes out the argument, waddling to the truck that had shadowed them, large and unassuming to his family's plight. He almost felt bad if he wasn't already used to the routine. The driver had gotten out of his car, so Jisung pulls on the man's denim pants. 

The man's eyebrows knit together, fixated on the blatant animosity brewing before him. A bigger perplexion arrived when he lowered his head and saw a little boy. 

Jisung does not speak, only pointing at the boxes. When the main remains in confused silent, he musters up all his English to say, "Help."

"No, don't worry. I'll handle it," the man says with a force tugging on his crooked teeth. "I'm going to speak to your mom and dad. Why don't you go sit by the porch? Hey, kid, your parents..." He pauses then shakes his graying head. "Nevermind, little buddy, go play."

Jisung stares at him blankly.

The man frowns. "Um." He gesticulates weakly. "Don't. Help. Play."

He continues to make gestures that convey to Jisung how unnecessary and unwanted he is. It seems such gestures are universal regardless of region. He nibbles at his lip again, letting go of the man's jeans, and walking toward the house with haste. Jisung knows rejection like the back of his hand, and it is a sour taste that bites him all the same. 

The house is larger compared to the others beside them. Its classical wooden design appears like a carbon copy rip off of one of those rickety taverns in old cowboy films. It's a concept he remembers solely from lazy Sundays with uncle’s extensive film collection and pouches of Yakult. It is white and western and weird amidst the crisp, tiled homes. A rectangle dropped in a city of squares.

He's nervous at the sight of it. 

With a frown carved into his chubby face, he sits on the dilapidated patio that reeked of splinters, waiting for the boxes and furniture to be organized.

A bustle of helping men enter and in their hands are couches and chairs and the like. There travel in a haphazard line, shouting to each other across yards and fences. In the center of it all, his parents direct what went hair with a safety on their tongue. 

Like an overdue essay, Jisung is left alone, and his gaze wanders. It traverses down the cobble-stoned pathway that sliced through the front yard, trailing up further to meet a cluster of colors. 

Across the road, there is a male quartet. One captured Jisung's attention the most, a skinny boy with a face like a painting. He pokes slightly at the corners of his lips and wonders the last time he smiled as brightly. 

The boy laughs uproariously while pushing another wearing a Squidward T-shirt to the ground. In turn, a child with cherry red hair waddles over and attempts to bite his hand while the last cat-like boy tried to stop him.

The rowdy lot smashes their vivid toy trucks against wailing police cars, making boisterous noises and imitating explosions. It is bright lights and orange soda dripping down smiling chins. It is refreshing and nothing he recognizes. 

Jisung finds himself curious. He finds himself seething with envy. 

For a moment, he lets himself watch their brightness, but a strident yell beckons him.

“Jisung! Get inside right now!” his mother orders.

He pushes himself off the battered bench, sparing one last glance, before following his mother’s command.

Jisung is only four when he moves to Los Angeles, California where the air smells like honeyed dewdrops and rattling noises rush through the streets like a raging waterfall. He's not sure what'll happen here, but at least here there is an opportunity for a clean slate, a new chapter, and that makes it all worth its while.

* * *

_But, nothing in the world that has occurred could be fully erased. It leaves a mark on the universe; its essence tattoos itself to the ghost of thine movement. _

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the third multi-chaptered Hyunsung fic I've started and they are all going to be exceptionally long. Haha. I write to hide the pain.


	2. kindergarten interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Italics = Korean

"Welcome to kindergarten!" greets a middle-aged woman with golden hair kissed by Apollo. Her deep-set hazel eyes sparkle and Jisung believes she's an angel. "I'm Ms. Mideros and I'll be your teacher this year. I hope we have a fantastic time together!"

She is as beautiful as a bouquet of roses and the little children sitting criss-cross apple sauce are entranced by her bumbling radiance.

A chorusing reply of "Me too!" rings unanimously throughout the tiny classroom. Jisung joins in too because even he is inconceivably weak to Ms. Mideros's pretty pink smile. She speaks and he listens. Or, at the very least, he tries. 

It's hard, Jisung thinks, comprehending all the English. He can speak it, yes, but his accent is too noticeable or sometimes he jumbles up the words. He doesn't want to talk, he hates to talk, but for his new teacher, he tries. 

"You guys are so sweet!" the woman coos and Jisung feels a sense of pride swell in his chest. "Since it's the first day of school, why don't we get to know each other by playing?"

Cheers spring from the clumped assortment of toddlers and Ms. Mideros giggles. At her call, the melting pot of students explores their second home and fiddle with the hodgepodge of toys scattered on the floor.

Instead of hogging the puzzles or the building blocks, Jisung waddles to the lone rack in the corner of the room where an entanglement of frayed picture books struggles to stay upright. With his chubby hands, he wrangles "If You Give a Mouse a Cookie" from underneath several books and begins turning the wide pages. Each word is as big as his fingernail.

Perfect. This is perfect. 

Jisung starts to carefully sound the words out to himself. "If. You. Give. A. Mouse. A. Cookie. He's. Going. To. Want. Some. Milk."

He repeats milk three times to himself, trying and trying and trying. 

.

.

.

In between the small juncture between when the mouse takes a nap and when the mouse draws a picture, alarming clatter sprouts from across the room, drawing everyone's attention. Even the two boys caught up in their pirate fantasy game pause their makeshift sword fight to identify the origin. 

"Sammy!" a girl shouts.

"I'm sorry, Lucy!" the boy, 'Sammy', replies. 

Jisung lifts his head and sees a girl with dark hair wrapped in tight pigtails glaring at a boy with his hair cut short to reveal piercings. His eyes narrow at the aesthetic mutilation, his mother's warnings of biker gangs blaring at the back of his head. He edges backward when he inspects the damage. 

A collapsed pile of alphabet building blocks wallow at their feet, the pastel letters spelling "FUN VE." It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what happened. 

Lucy's lower lip trembles. "I worked so hard on it!"

"I know! I'm sorry!" although the rabble-rouser says this, when he moves again, he topples another tower of blocks, inciting a small shriek from the girl once more. 

All around him, people laugh, unperturbed by his oblivious destruction. There's a snicker to Jisung's left and another kid teases playfully, "You're gon' make Lucy cry, dummy!"

"Yeah! Stop it!" says another voice, but it holds no real bite. Another scolding lilt retaining no depth. "You runned the towah of pizza!"

"Ruined, dummy! Ru-ined!"

"Tha's what I said! Runded! Sam's runnah towah! He has to fix it!"

Sammy doesn't seem too bothered by the reprimands, shooting a beaming, pearly-white smile. "I will, I will." He stretches his hand out to the sniffling Lucy. "I'll help you make it again. Pinky promise."

Sighing at the meaningless distraction, Jisung returns to his book with a pout. _"So noisy,"_ he mutters sourly.

.

.

.

For the briefest second, sharp eyes glance at him and turn away. 

* * *

_Few people dare now to say that two beings have fallen in love because they have looked at each other. Yet it is in this way that love begins, and in this way only. _

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what it feels like to be put in a new environment where I'm forced to learn a new language to communicate, so bear with me.
> 
> I know it says Hyunjin's name is Sam but I promise it won't be for long :,(


	3. first grade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: homophobic behavior and belittling behavior toward a child
> 
> Italics = Korean

A year passes by and life illuminates, at least Jisung believes it did. His parents rarely argued over the table as of late, even going so far as to maintain an almost civil conversation during supper time. Father earned a big promotion and Jisung got paper-white _Adidas_ the next morning. Mother is happier as well, leaving the house more and more often and returning with large bags filled to the brim with frilly clothing. 

Jisung thinks this is happiness and when the summer ends and a new school year begins, he arrives a little earlier than normal.

He shouldn't have. It would've postponed his inevitable disappointment. 

You see, first grade is exactly like kindergarten but worse. He now has to walk a farther distance because the first-grade classrooms are located near the cubic bungalows in the back of the campus. Not only that, he was robbed of his wide desks and playground just for them, each replaced by pathetic two-by-two tables and a shared recess with other grades. 

In conclusion, Jisung is not impressed in the slightest. 

However, not everything was absolutely terrible. If there are two things that he even remotely likes, the first would be the star chart. If you are able to tie your shoes correctly, Mr. Kim will write your name on a rectangular sticker and tape it on the board. To his great pride, Jisung was the first name on the wall, having learned to tie his shoes through _Rugrats_ when no one else could do it for him. 

The second thing he likes is Mr. Kim, his teacher. He is Korean too and when Jisung is struggling, he explains the concept in their shared language. Mr. Kim does not get frustrated when he fumbles with his pronunciation. He does not raise his voice. 

He remembers one particularly difficult day. _"I know what it's like to feel small because all the words you want to say don't come out the way you want them to,"_ said Mr. Kim. _"Take all the time you need."_

So he keeps trying and trying and trying. His English is better but he still prefers not to speak. But boy does it feel nice when Mr. Kim smiles when he does.

One time, Mr. Kim asked him if he wanted to join the rest of the class playing tag after back-to-back English sessions during recess and lunch. Jisung declined.

_"I prefer being here,"_ he said. 

Mr. Kim simply nodded and asked if he'd like to help him grade papers. 

Jisung accepted and that was his definition of fun. That is his definition of friendship—a mutual understanding between two people, undeterred by age.

.

.

.

Not many days were particularly exciting, but today is especially bland in his opinion. 

Mr. Kim placed sheets of paper in front of the entire class along with cylindrical tubes of _Crayola_ paint—a horrible idea in hindsight—and told his students to draw a picture of what they love the most. It was an in-throw-speck-chin activity, he said with conviction. 

How art involves any of those words escaped Jisung's understanding, so he thinks this project is rubbish anyhow. 

The stupid project on top of being nonsensical also requires the students to work in partners. Partners that they have to choose. Needless to say, Jisung becomes the lone pea in a pod. 

Before Mr. Kim could punish him with being the third wheel, a comet bursts through the door with flair. 

"I'm so sorry I'm late, teach—I mean, sir!" the comet shouts. Students giggle and he continues hurriedly. "I was watching _Boys Over Flowers_ last night, and I swear I was only going to watch one episode, but then I watched the next, and the next, and I lost track of time and—"

Mr. Kim sighs deeply, gesturing for the shimmering star to come closer. His hands rest sternly on his hips. "Hyunjin—"

"Call me Sam, not Hyunjin!" the blinding boy interrupts. 

"Okay, Sam. We're doing an art project and since you're late, you'll be working with Jisung over here." His teacher waves his manicured hand in his general direction. Then, he bends his knees and says pointedly, "Don't mess around. If you mess around, the class will never get to use the paint again."

With that said, Mr. Kim leaves to supervise the other children. 

Jisung stares at his classmate cautiously. He clutches his paintbrush to his chest. 

Sam, likewise, scrutinizes him curiously. He smiles—a bright beaming smile that stretched across his flushed cheeks with a twinkle. He places his Power Ranger backpack onto the back of his chair and plops himself beside the other boy. "Sup, man!" he greets merrily. 

Scribbling on a white sheet of paper, Jisung tells him, mindful of his pronunciation, "We draw what we love the most."

Sam nods, not minding the way he slurs around certain letters, bouncing in his seat. "Cool! I'm gonna draw the red power ranger!"

Jisung hands him the tube of red paint without another word. 

Sam accepts it and pops it open, excess spraying the air. Some splotches land on his shirt, but he pays it no heed. "Do you like the _Power Rangers?_ I love the _Power Rangers._ Who's your favorite? I already said it, but I like the red one. He's the coolest. That's why my backpack's red and so is my blanket."

Obeying his teacher's instructions, Jisung ignores Sam's comments, selecting a bright flamingo pink and a daunting coal-black. The brush he uses is frayed and cracked but it's perfect for capturing Father's bushy beard. However, it got harder to use when he had to draw Mother's smooth hair of midnight. 

Sam talks again. "I never see you around, you know. I mean, of course, I see you during class, but I don't see you during the breaks and stuff. I think you live across from me because I saw this huge truck in front of my house. Where are you from?"

He speaks so fast Jisung can barely process his words. Figuring it's better not to reply at all, he shifts a little to the left, careful of touching wet paint. Although smudged colors streak his white sweatshirt and tan face, his thin legs are tucked beneath him. If a single speck marks them, he'll surely get a mouthful from Father and the delicate tranquility they worked so hard to maintain would shatter. It'd be his fault. 

Jisung hears an exaggerated sigh, a few mumbles, and a gasp. _"Are you even from America?"_ Sam asks in clumsy Korean.

Jisung doesn't really know what to do, but the other's eyes are so imploring and his smile is contagious, so lets out a soft, _"No." _

He hoped that would be the extent of their exchange, but like adding fuel to a fire, Sam pushes his chair closer to him, chattering again, this time in broken Korean. _"You know, you get the special privilege of calling me Hyunjin. Only you though. Don't tell anyone else."_

Jisung dismisses him and resumes his work. They reach an equilibrium. 

.

.

.

Jisung draws as far as hair and clothing before he realizes he needs green for the background. Twisting and bending around the small clumps of rainbow barf scattered on the tiled floor, he maneuvers his way to the supply table to select the perfect tone.

_"Are you getting new colors?"_ Hyunjin asks followed by a shuffle of construction paper and a chair scraping the ground. _"Wait. Let me come with you!"_

And that's when the disaster happens. With a crash, a trip, and a brilliant tint of blazing fire spilling across the frame of his vision. Hyunjin falls over his feet, tripping on his untied shoelaces. The tubes in his hands are pulled down with him, prompting him to squeeze. 

Crimson stains Jisung's new sneakers. His entire body stiffens, wide eyes fixated on his shoes. The groan sounding below him and the shrieks of surprise fade into static. 

Hyunjin clambers onto his feet. "Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry."

The apology falls on deaf ears. His attention zeroes in on the drying paint ruining the symbol of Father's hard work.

Click. 

Possessed by some demon of anger, Jisung pops the cap of his pink paint and hovers it over Hyunjin's head. Without a single ounce of remorse, he clutches the tube as hard as he can, watching the gooey contents free fall down on his enemy. 

A slimy waterfall of pink runs down Hyunjin's dark locks, dripping down his cheeks in rivulets. 

Hyunjin gasps. The class gasps. Jisung glares. 

Silence. 

With an innocent tilt of his lips, Hyunjin reaches his arm out and grabs the green paint Jisung initially wanted and pours it right down the front of Jisung's shirt. Startled by the coldness and the complete sacrilege of his sweater, Jisung squeezes a mountain of black paint onto his hand, slaps it against the other's face, smearing it across his nose and to his neck in zebra-like stripes. 

Julia yells for Mr. Kim, but they don't care. 

Magenta. Lime. Scarlet. Peach. Yellow. Orange. Purple. Blue.

They drag their hands on to each other, using the fabric of their clothes as a canvas, their fingers as brushes, a masterful calamity. Colors splash onto benign desks as they roll around the classroom together, crumpling posters and the feet of their classmates, but all they could see is their illustration and the convoluted artistry that resulted of it—a childish portrait of youthful fury. 

Jisung gives Hyunjin a fluorescent orange face mask before a broad shadow covers the duo like a veil. Mr. Kim towers above them, tall and brooding. 

They pause in their messy wrestle, staring upward guiltily. 

Hyunjin squeaks, "We poked the bear."

The teacher yanks the two of them out of the goop and jabs his thumb at the door with a scarlet face. "Main office. Now."

.

.

.

Jisung thrusts his crayon into his standard coloring book harshly, his paint-encrusted hands crackling under the dynamic movement. 

Mr. Kim taped strongly-worded letters to their chests before having a helper escort them to the main office where would wait for their parents to pick them up. They were now forced to entertain themselves with the ripped up children's books abandoned on the only table in the room. 

Hyunjin picks at his red-orange-black hair, fidgeting in his seat. 

Given the numerous instances where Hyunjin got sent to the Principle's office over a fight, anxiety is not an emotion Jisung expected from the other kid. If anything, this incident would only be another blemish on his already spotted record. Not that he cares, mind you. 

Hyunjin draws a sharp intake of breath. _"Hey, Jisung, I—"_

_"Don't talk to me,"_ he coldly cuts off. 

Hyunjin nibbles on his lip and looks down at his own coloring book. Every movement he makes is accompanied by so much noise. Jisung tries to ignore him but Hyunjin's eyes keep shifting to him nervously, fingers tapping periodically on the wood, a methodical beat that drummed along with the incessant ticking of the clock. 

Jisung wonders when it's time to leave so he just gets his scolding over with. 

The subtle noise of crayons scratching on paper fills the silence for a brief moment before Hyunjin licks his lips and tries again. _"I'm sorry about your shoes,"_ he says quickly, almost incoherent, afraid to be interrupted. 

He earns a glance, nothing more. 

Hyunjin grows bolder, body poised to rise. _"I am! Really! I'm so sorry!"_ The volume of his apology attracts rueful stares from the desk ladies. 

Jisung glares. _"Shut up! You want us to be put on time out in the nurse's office?"_

_"Well—no, but—"_

_"Leave me alone then,"_ he hisses. 

Obviously, Hyunjin can't take a hint because he fidgets. Jisung turns the page and in a bout of spontaneity, he blurts, _"You should make the giraffe purple."_

Although he doesn't want to give Hyunjin the satisfaction of his response, his instinctual need to express his opinion makes itself known. _"Why don't I make the grass yellow too while I'm at it?"_ he says with a roll of his eyes. 

The other brightens. At what and why, he doesn't know, but it spurs Hyunjin to push his chair closer, allowing the edges to touch. _"Yeah. And make the sun green."_

To be stuck with a person so dense left Jisung staring agape. Maybe dense wasn't the right word, but persistent. He purses his heart-shaped lips and did the only thing he could do—take out another crayon. _"Well. The sky better be pink then."_

A glimpse of teeth with one missing incisor shows itself with all its absent glory. Hyunjin takes the crayon excitedly. _"You bet!"_

And so they color together in the white office tarnished with the faint scent of hands sanitizer and old ladies. 

.

.

.

_"Purple,"_ Jisung insists, gesticulating wildly. _"It looks pretty with the pink sky."_

Hyunjin shakes his head. _"The giraffe is already purple. Just do red like the red power ranger!"_

_"You always go back to the red power ranger."_

_"Nuh-uh!"_

A sweet bell chimes behind them, signaling the arrival of a visitor. Jisung puts his crayon down and twists his body to look behind him, heart dropping to his stomach right after. Standing tall, prim, and poised are his parents. They overshadow the miniature chairs like giants, glaring sharply at Jisung and even sharper at Hyunjin. 

Mother faces him first._ "A referral? You got a referral? You should feel ashamed of yourself. How could you humiliate me like this?"_

Father is more passive. _"We'll wait for his parents before we talk about this."_

Jisung lowers his head, nodding. The pleasant mood occupying the office freezes over, leaving an artic tundra that struck him silent. He feels his companion nudge his shoulder softly, but he refuses to grant the other access to his attention. He doesn't want his parents to worsen any punishment they may give him.

While the time ticks onward, only the dotty typing of the computer echoes throughout the room. Hyunjin's eyebrows are drawn together, his lips forming a contemplative pout.

Finally, two men enter. One is pastel-colored with a kind, pretty face. The other is a little scary with bright blond hair and piercings littering his ears. A glimpse of a tattoo disappears behind his clothing—an arm sleeve. Jisung would have been intimidated if not for the fact that the scary man held a flowery box of cake in his hands.

Hyunjin smiles. "Dad! Papa!"

Jisung finds it kind of strange that Hyunjin addressed his father twice, but the thought disperses when the pretty man walks up to them and pinches Hyunjin's cheek. _"Don't 'papa' me. This is the second fight this school year."_

A question pops in Jisung's head. Now that their faces are next to each other, he finds that Hyunjin looks nothing like the pretty man. In fact, he looks nothing like the pretty man standing off to the side either except for the holes in their ears. Confused, his eyes switch from the men to his newfound friend.

In the corner of the room, his parents stiffen and slowly make their way to him. 

Jisung tries really hard not to laugh when Hyunjin groans. _"Papa! Stop! Jisung's here!"_

"Who?" The pretty man's gaze trails to him. Jisung is dumbstruck under his attention, heart beating fast. The man speaks with a funny accent. "Hello. You must be Jisung. I'm Hyunjin's—"

"Sam!"

"You are whoever I say you are!" The man glares. "I'm Hyunjin's dad, Felix."

Hyunjin frowns and leans forward, cupping his hands around his father's ears. His father nods and repeats himself in Korean. Hyunjin winks at him, but Jisung doesn't acknowledge the gesture, too fixated by the colors on Felix's face. It looks nothing like the ones used in class. 

"I-I like your face paint," he says in his best English, flushing a deep red.

Felix's face transforms into that of shock before melting into a gorgeous composition of pink porcelain and white pearls. Hyunjin's nose wrinkles distastefully. 

The scary man with the pretty box takes the chance to approach his parents. "I'm so sorry about Hyunjin's behavior. I want to say that this doesn't happen often, but I can't. If there anything we can do to make up for it?"

A heavy hand clamps onto Jisung's shoulder. "No, it's fine." Father tugs on his wrist hard, forcing him to stand. 

"Well, I'm Bang Chan, and really, if you need anything—"

"We need to go," Father interrupts coldly. "I don't think we should hang around here too long."

Felix's face falls and Chan stares at his father directly, an icy glacier threatening to impale. "Have a nice day then."

The gears turn in Jisung's head—the closeness, the two fathers—and his mouth drops at the revelation. He grips tightly onto his backpack, locking eyes with Hyunjin. The other boy is frowning, teeth nibbling on his lower lip. He looks fragile like a single word could devastate him. 

Jisung straightens his back. _"See you later, Jinnie."_ He meets him with a steady heart and a steady gaze. 

A dazzling smile replaces Hyunjin's gloomy expression. A similar emotion reflects in his parents and finally, Jisung sees the resemblance. A bit tougher, Hyunjin pushes himself off his seat, ripping a page off the coloring book. As he pushes their drawing in his hands, he whispers,_ "Don't miss me too much."_

Jisung tucks the page into his pants pocket. _"As if."_

Chan and Felix relax at the casual banter, but Mother and Father roughly drag him toward the door.

.

.

.

The walk to the car is tense, not that he expects anything else, but once they enter the car, the insults spew like an erupting volcano.

_"I knew the child had to come from one of them!" _Mother rants._ "I can't believe America allowed them to be parents! Did you see that child's ears? Who lets their kid have piercings? Look at his clothes! I even bet he started the fight. It's those fucking f—"_ She releases an extremely offensive slur that had Jisung burrowing into the seat uncomfortably.

He didn't know what it meant, but he felt it.

_"Try not to hang around that boy,"_ Father says. _"It wouldn't do you any good considering what kind of lifestyle they chose."_

_"Okay,"_ he replies obediently. 

The ride home is suffocating. 

.

.

.

Before Jisung goes to sleep, he extracts the paper from his pocket and meticulously folds it in half, storing it in the bottom of his drawer.

* * *

_ Sometimes the best gestures of friendship are not characterized by a grand declaration of forever or consistent advice but comprised of small acts that remind you that it's worth it. _

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's recap what we found out! Chan and Felix are married. Woojin is Jisung's favorite teacher. And Jisung's parents are terrible.


	4. second grade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Italics = Korean

Second grade began and while the motto "new year, new me" should have sparked a movement within Jisung's empty reserve of motivation, the very real and very prominent "old habits die hard" decided to take long-term residence, stifling his metamorphosis into a productive member of society. Although his new deskmates are nice enough, he can't speak to them without stuttering, and he finds himself falling into that same, stagnant routine of attending school, zoning out, leaving school.

His teacher, Ms. Turner, has buck teeth and owly glasses that swallow the top half of her face, akin to Harry Potter. She doesn't do anything overtly wrong, but she is no Mr. Kim who Jisung continues to assist during breaks—like today. 

_"Are you done with your stack?"_ asks Mr. Kim.

_"Yes."_ He scribbles a thick three at the top of a half-filled spelling test. _"Just finished."_

He collects his papers, organizing the small misshapen tower in a way that hid the fact it was handled by a child. After Mr. Kim retrieves the stack, he files it away in a metal cabinet packed full with meticulously labeled folders. 

Jisung wiggles in his chair to ease his sore butt.

The teacher swivels his chair back around frowns. _"Why are you still here? There's still ten minutes of lunch left."_

_"No,"_ he repeats, _"I'm okay. I always like staying here." _

Mr. Kim elaborates, _"But aren't you friends with Hyunjin now? I know you fought last year but you guys got along so well afterward."_

_"We don't have time to talk this year."_ Jisung fiddles with his fingers at the reminder of the incident. 

For two weeks, he was grounded, tied to the confines of his bedroom and no further unless he was required at the dining room for meals. To be honest, he didn't understand the logic of his punishment. In his room, there are oak bookcases lined with fairy tales and manga, a small TV to watch reruns of Pororo and Gundam, and a bucket of colored pencils prime subjects to his artistry.

If anything, the resulting consequence was more of an affirmation of his antisocial tendencies than an agonizing sentence. 

Mr. Kim hums. _"Still, you should start getting along with children your own age, even if it's not him."_

_"It's not that I don't want to play with him... I do..."_

Nowadays, Jisung craves companionship. It's a foreign inclination, but one he falls prey to easily. To an extent, Ms. Kim hit it on the nose. He no longer experiences the same gratification with their daily arrangement. He sighs more often. His heart grows fonder.

Jisung is no stranger to loneliness who has for so long been his closest associate but a wave of desire drowns him. It intensifies unbearably. 

Rockets, he hears when he leans into his chair. Zooming and zooming across the field like bullets. 

When he closes his eyes, he can paint a vivid picture. A coalition of first, second, and third graders line up in a row. A self-proclaimed authority takes the initiative to count down and in three, two, one, an army of children rush forward and a high stakes game of freeze tag commences.

It's liberating. He can taste the freedom on his tongue—kind of like tamarinds, but that could be because of his afternoon snack. 

However, that scene isn't what beckons for him. What fuels this panging impulse is the existence or lack thereof of his friend—his only friend.

It starts when Ms. Turner sits Hyunjin on the complete opposite side of the classroom, crushing any hopes for spontaneous conversations crushed between lessons. No laughs and crinkling eyes over the difficulty of times tables and division. No sharing of erasers and test answers when the teacher isn't looking. A melancholic sensation rumbles with a picture of a boy running away from him and towards a group of friends so much bigger, better, and brighter than him. 

Mr. Kim says, _"That's a first. Why don't you go join him then? It's not like he'll say no."_

_"I don't think,"_ he juggles his words carefully, _"I can handle him."_

_"Hm, I think you're one of the only ones who can."_

_"That's... no." _

Unlike Jisung, Hyunjin is handsome and friendly and popular, surrounded by the warmth of so many other classmates that their own exchange seems feeble in comparison. Sometimes, he thinks he'd have been better off not knowing the other at all because at least then he wouldn't be feeling so bad. He wouldn't feel so small. 

The door yanks open, making the paper dioramas quiver, and muddied converse pit-a-pat their way to the teacher's desk. 

"Hey, Mr. Kim!" Hyunjin shouts in his usual fashion. "Wassup!"

"Speak of the devil," Mr. Kim whispers under his breath. "Hello, Hyunjin."

"I told you! It's—"

"—Sam," Jisung finishes.

"Sup, Jisung." Hyunjin beams and leans on Mr. Kim's desk coolly. "So, we're done playing Zombie Virus. It's tag but you can tag as many people as you want and you can't be untagged because you're a zombie, duh, just eating people, you know? Like a virus. A Zombie Virus, like the name of the game—"

"I'm sorry, but what brings you here, Sam?" Mr. Kim interrupts kindly. 

"Oh! I wanted to ask Jisung if he wants to join the next round." He turns to him with sparkling eyes. "Will you?"

Mr. Kim translates Hyunjin's long-winded request. 

_"Now?"_ asks Jisung.

_"Well, yeah. Sky and Lewis are arguing over who gets to do the_ picking rhyme, _so I came here while they decide. If we leave now, we can still put our shoes in."_

_"Sky and Lewis?"_

_"Yeah, and Amber and Henry and Wendy and Jackson and Hussey—so everyone except the_ jump-ropers."

The number of people scares him. _"No, thank you."_ He cringes as Hyunjin's face falls muscle by muscle. He's the one who caused that, him. 

_"Okay, that's fine,"_ says Hyunjin plainly. _"We can just stay here and build a _castle_ or something."_

_"What? Aren't you going to play with them?" _

But, by the time Jisung voices his concern, Hyunjin has long since pushed himself off the desk to sift through the assortment of blocks underneath the whiteboard. His head pops up like an erupted volcano, nose crinkling handsomely. _"Nah. I was feeling super tired anyway."_ He jiggles the box of tinker toys in his arms. _"So, are we gonna build that _castle_ or what?"_

Butterflies emerge in Jisung's stomach, expanding and enveloping him in a blanket of fireworks and the sweeping shiver of Autumn. He turns to Mr. Kim who watches with veiled amusement and with a grin, he accompanies Hyunjin on the ground. _"A house."_

_"Just a house?"_

_"But we can still add dragons,"_ he adds in appeasement.

"Bet."

.

.

.

This new arrangement continues for weeks. Hyunjin spends the first half of his break outside and the second half with Jisung. 

Less and less, Jisung indulges solitude. Less and less, isolation remains satisfactory. Less and less, he is lonely, sweet smiles and twinkling stars gradually defining his childhood.

However, even when he finally musters the courage to play tag with the other students, even when he slides down the apparatus, arms raise, one thought remains: that family is scum. His parents' scathing remarks echo faintly with every giggle.

He isn't, Jisung swears, and one day he'll prove it. 

.

.

.

Seasons change and Fall whisks into Winter and thaws into Spring, an era where youth accumulates into a harmonic climax of dodgeball, handball, and every other sport that ends with the token, ball.

It's also the season of allergies. 

Jisung loathes spring. His nose is a glowing red and he can't breathe without hacking up a storm. Everything itches and what annoys him more is that no one else in this school seems to be as affected. 

He sniffles, Kleenez bunched in his left hand while his right hand works on the morning writing prompt. Beside him, his self-proclaimed best friend of many months flexes his strong immune system. 

_"Man, have you seen the petunias Ms. Mideros planted?"_ Hyunjin stretches his arms out dramatically. _"They smell awesome!"_

Jisung blows his nose into another handful of tissues. 

Hyunjin tilts his chair toward him._ "It's the best._ So flowery and springy!"

"Springy's _not a word,"_ Jisung snaps. His head throbs, a sharp badump-badump pounding at his head in increasing decibels. Everything is trying to suffocate him. He only sees the word 'The' trembling in his grip. 

"Don't be such a negative Nancy. _You gotta wake up and smell the roses—oh, wait!"_ He cackles. 

Nancy, a strong-minded girl with a penchant for following the rules, swivels around in her chair. Her index finger is poised at the perfect angle to scold. "Be quiet! Do some work for once!"

On the opposite side of the spectrum, Hyunjin has the reputation of a slacker—completely untrue if you were to ask Jisung. His friend works hard to understand the lessons, asks frequent questions on his homework during recess, and is generally enamored with the school environment. He's in his elements and he owns it if his grades don't already reflect his vigor. 

Hyunjin may look like some child genius who naturally understands every concept thrown at him, but the reality is that his achievements are a result of a developed work ethic and passion for learning. 

Hyunjin snickers again. "Ooh! The real negative Nancy has entered the chat! Whatcha gonna do about it?"

Nancy's hands clench into fists and drop to her hips. "I'm telling!" In a flash, her hand shoots up and so does Jisung's headache. Her loud voice gripes on her eardrums. 

"Let's not go that far."

"Ms. Turner! Ms. Turner!"

"Fine! I'll do my work. Shut up," concedes Hyunjin, grumbling as he picks up his pencil.

The girl adorns a smug grin, returning to her paper.

When she's not looking, Hyunjin sticks his tongue out at her. With a huff, he buries his face into Jisung's shoulder. _"Make me feel better."_ He recoils. _"What the—You're burning up!"_

_"Of course, I am. I'm sick."_

_"No, you're like, really hot." _

_"Thanks."_

Hyunjin's hands press frantically at his forehead. _"We have to go to the_ nurse's office."

A small bout of panic rumbles in Jisung's stomach. He's not stupid. He knows that his fever is high enough to warrant a one-way ticket home. But he also knows that his parents are too busy to pick him up and too busy to take care of him. Usually, he didn't mind the lack of supervision, but the lonely echo of the house has begun to bother him in his weakest state. He should be used to it, but with his head fuzzy and lungs clenching painfully, he was not eager for another round of solitude. 

_"I'm fine,"_ says Jisung, fist loosening around his pencil. 

Hyunjin's face drops. _"No, you're not. Come on, I'm telling Ms. Turner."_

_"Jinnie, stop. I'm okay."_

_"Don't lie,"_ says Hyunjin. He raises his hand and calls out to their teacher. 

Jisung tugs hard. _"Please!"_ He lowers his voice to a whisper after attracting attention. He hates the dimmed lights, the blurriness. But he doesn't want to go home, not yet. _"I'll just sit on the bench at lunch. Please."_

Cat-like eyes bore into his with suspicion, but as a seven-year-old kid, he's easily swayed. "Fine."

With that, the inevitable conversation is delayed, not terminated. 

.

.

.

Keeping his promise, Jisung avoids any form of strenuous activity, watching Hyunjin play dodgeball with his other friends. He's alone. Without Hyunjin by his side, no one feels an inclination to talk to him—the non-American Korean-American. All his attachments lead back to his best friend. 

Lunch passes by fast and Hyunjin glues himself to his side, shoving his stale vegetables onto his tray at every opportunity.

_"I'm doing this because I hate broccoli, okay."_

_"I hate it too."_

_"You should still eat it."_

_"Why?"_

_"Because I said so."_

The class also passes by quickly with Hyunjin answering any and all questions directed toward him. 

Ms. Turner asks, "Okay, Jisung, what's the name of our planet?"

"Mars!"

"First off, it's not your turn, Sam. Second off, no."

Once the bell rings for the end of school, Hyunjin links his arm with his and insists on escorting him home, or at least to his car. This is unusual for the boy typically heads to the playground directly after school until his dads arrive.

His chest warms and Jisung thinks it's a symptom of his illness. He puffs his cheeks as they stroll. _“You’re embarrassing me."_

Hyunjin pokes his cheek, deflating it. _"My dad says that if you keep your face too long, it'll get stuck like that."_

Jisung glares and Hyunjin darts away from hostile hands, giggling. They linger at the front steps of the school since Hyunjin can't leave the premises until his dad arrives. 

_"When are your parents getting here?"_ inquires Hyunjin peeking at the street. 

_"They're not. I'm walking home,"_ he says, sniffling. 

Hyunjin's smile drops. His entire body stills as he registers the words. _"But you're sick. Our houses are blocks away from school."_

Jisung shrugs. His parents are always too busy. Busy with promotions, businesses, and their own social life. This is the least he could do given that he's living off their wealth. "It's nothing." 

_"It's not_ _nothing. They should be taking you home. You're sick."_

While Jisung resonates with the truth of Hyunjin's insistence, the dialogue skims too close to a hidden target. He bows his head._ "I-I have to go. Sorry."_

Hyunjin backtracks. _"Hey, we can take you home. It's no problem."_

_"No! That's not—I just—I'll see you tomorrow, okay."_

Knowing that the other can't follow, Jisung hurries past the school boundary and toward the streets. He hears Hyunjin call his name and he's anxious and Jisung's sorry but his skill in repudiating tense subjects is unmatched. He can't cope with confrontation. He's not used to being a priority. 

.

.

.

When he arrives at school a week later, fever gone, they do not speak of their last encounter. Hyunjin speaks as though nothing happened, and if the honey yellow tone of his voice mixes with Prussian blue, neither mention it. The elephant in the room persists, but they are only seven years old and they do not know how to address it.

The conversation is delayed, not terminated.

* * *

_Forgive my indifference; I'd rather be distant than devastated._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jisung lives like a mile away. The whole structure of the school and neighborhood is based on my old neighborhood in Los Angeles. 
> 
> Jisung's father works as some type of big, but not BIG business dude and his mother is a housewife who goes out too often. 
> 
> The italics are tedious, so I'll just make them speak in English in a few chapters.


	5. summer intermission

Jisung sits cross-legged on his twin bed, wearing fluffy socks that drag over his knees and reading his favorite book. A worn copy of _The Giving Tree_ lays flat on the crinkled pewter gray blanket, the pages precariously pinned down by his thumb and pinky. In his other hand, Jisung holds a juice box, chewing on the straw more than he sips.

The house revels in silence, the peaceful kind he's learned to savor. He thought solitude was dangerous, but he preferred it to the arguments. 

On weekends, his parents work. Or rather, Father works and Mother spends her time sipping wine in the city. He'd like to say they left him alone because they trust him, but that meant they paid enough attention to foster that reliability, and he is no fool to believe such a fallacy. It's more accurate to say they trust him not to disobey. He will remain perfectly in place.

The reason doesn't really matter to him as long as he's able to play without distraction. 

_Tap. Tap. Tappity-tap. _

Jisung flinches, jerking around to face his window.

A firetruck red curtain covers the glass, but a shadow of a figure takes shape on the silky fabric. His room is on the second floor.

Jisung's heart speeds up. _The Giving Tree_ is forgotten as he inches off his bed and toward the door. When his hands touch the doorknob, the noise comes again. 

_Tap. Tap. Tappity-tap. _

A familiar voice accompanies it this time. "Sungie! Open up!"

That sounds suspiciously like Hyunjin. Jisung frowns, marching to the aperture and opening the curtains.

True enough, a boy with starry eyes waves at him from the other side of the cool glass. Hyunjin presses his cheek into the window. "Let me in!"

Jisung undoes the latch and opens the window. He's careful not to smack the other boy in the face even though he really, really wants to.

Hyunjin runs a hand through his cosmic locks. "Hey."

"Are you crazy?" asks Jisung, smacking his friend on the arm. "You made me so nervous."

"Good to see you too," Hyunjin greets.

He no longer speaks to Jisung in Korean unless they're exchanging top secret information. Mr. Kim told them that it was more beneficial for Jisung's learning curve, whatever that meant. 

"How'd you even get up here?" 

"I live next door." Hyunjin shifts his body, revealing a little roof platform beneath his window nearly touching a similar raised surface on the other side of the white picket fence. The gap is small enough for someone to walk across with ease.

"I thought you lived across the street."

"Why'd you think that?"

"Because you said so!"

"No, I said I lived across from you. Across the side!" Hyunjin says, matter-of-factly. "Learn to listen."

Jisung rolls his eyes. He takes a deep breath and tries with all his might not to push the other off the ledge. "What do you want?"

"Wanna come over?" 

"I'm reading," Jisung says. 

"So?"

"Good point. Let's go."

Jisung slings his leg over the window and crouches to get out. Hyunjin holds his hand as he gets up, but he stares at him curiously.

"What's wrong?" asks Jisung. 

Hyunjin peers inside his room, pointer finger stretched out. "Aren't you gonna tell your parents where you're going?"

"They're not home. And even if they were, they don't... like you," Jisung informs bitterly. He ignores Hyunjin's crestfallen expression, pushing past to scrutinize the gap. "Don't worry about it. Is that your room right there? Do I just jump?"

Hyunjin bites his lip and nods. "Yeah, just walk over it. You won't fall if you're careful."

"Hold me, okay?" 

The two traverse from one platform to the other with ease, Jisung clinging to Hyunjin's hand. Hyunjin crawls through his window first citing residential advantage. He holds his hand out again to Jisung to make sure he didn't crash on his way in. He manages not to slip on the stray soccer ball that lay near the entrance. 

Hyunjin throws his hands in the air. "Welcome to my room!"

Looking around, the room is so stereotypically boyish. Clothes scatter the floor in frantic heaps and posters of famous swimmers are hung in a haphazard fashion. Even the bed screamed male with the crumpled dark blue sheets with the—surprise, surprise—red power ranger print. The potential testosterone levels leaking from each wooden panel nauseated him. Even he did not have this much prepubescent masculinity in his own quarters. 

"What do you want to do first?" asks Hyunjin.

"I don't know. You're the one who invited me! What do you want to do?"

Hyunjin toes the carpet, thinking, but then his face lights up. "We can watch K-dramas. I've been looking at this one called _Secret Garden_, but I haven't started it yet."

"I've don't really watch TV."

"Dude, it's the best," says Hyunjin. "You up for it?"

Honestly, once Jisung saw Hyunjin's beaming smile which stretched like taffy, that is sweet and hopeful and nice, he doesn't think he had the tenacity to refuse. He tries to look nonchalant nonetheless. "Sounds good."

.

.

.

As it turns out, Jisung loves K-Dramas—adored them actually. Initially, they had run into many mishaps when he couldn't stop pointing out the ridiculousness of the situation or when his attention kept on wandering during the serious parts. But once the plot started to hit its groove, he ended up so engrossed with what happened next, he kept on smacking Hyunjin in excitement. 

"Are you sure you don't watch TV?"

Jisung's eyes are glued to the screen. "Not at all."

His parents don't like him watching television, claiming the content would rot his mind and consume him. Instead, they buy miscellaneous books to appease his need for entertainment. Often, the books they buy aren't even within his reading level, so he holds them off or tries to read them with amazing inaccuracy. He remembers an instance where they gifted him _Lord of the Flies_ in English for his birthdays and shudders. 

"Huh," says Hyunjin. His hands wander and tickle Jisung. 

Jisung pushes him back into the carpet and tickles back. "Stop! Pay attention!"

"You pay attention!"

"Oh, my God, I'm gonna miss the best part!" screams Jisung, trying to roll away. Hyunjin lays on top of him. "Get off!"

"Never!"

"I swear—"

The screen starts to play the OST, and with a rough shove, Jisung peels Hyunjin off of him. His cheeks puff up as he reads the credits. He missed the kiss. It's over. 

"See!" says Jisung angrily. "Stupid!" It's the worst swear word in the dictionary and he can't believe he said it out loud, but the rage devoured him completely. 

Hyunjin pushes himself up on his elbows. "We can just rewind it, no biggie. It's not even the finale yet."

The curtain ruffle and the digital clock on Hyunjin's drawer hits eight o'clock. 

Jisung stands, brushing off his shorts. "Can't. I gotta go home now. Mother and Father will be back soon."

Hyunjin doesn't response. In fact, he looks a little nervous at the statement. For a few moments, Jisung waits for him to say something, anything, but he never does. The other keeps opening his mouth and closing it again. Hesitant and shy and conflicted—he doesn't want Jisung to go.

"Jinnie?"

"I'm sorry, it's just—" Hyunjin twiddles with his fingers. "Why don't you call your parents mom and dad? It's always Mother or Father with you."

"It's just how I call them."

Hyunjin licks his lips, growing bolder. "You're right and that's fine, but like, how come they aren't home with you? Why don't they take care of you?"

Jisung's heart grows heavier. His lungs hurt. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, we—me and my dads—we hear yelling sometimes, and you walk home even when you're really, really sick, and they hate my family because we're not like yours, so... I just want to know—are you okay?"

Hyunjin's sharp eyes bore into his and Jisung refuses to fall prey to their spell. They were like space, twinkling and vast and deep with curiosity. Like the snake in the Garden of Eden, they provoke him surely, entice him and prod. He hates gazing into those starry eyes. 

"You know, I don't ask why your parents are like _that_, so don't ask about mine. It's not your business," Jisung says with finality.

He didn't come here for an interrogation. Then again, what did he come here for? For fun? For friendship? The salty taste of uncertainty slides over his tongue, propelling his need to vacate the premises. 

Hyunjin scrambles to his feet. "No, I'm sorry. I—I want to be friends with you and—"

"And what?" His hand is on the ledge. He's curled in on himself. 

"I want you to talk to me."

Jisung's grip on the windowsill tightens. His tan hands pale with tension. "Don't worry about me. I'm... fine."

Hyunjin looks unconvinced and Jisung doesn't think he can change that. A brief period of reticence passes between them, a quiet sort of conversation that roams in the unspoken words that hang in the air like tinsel. It's like a competition but they don't know what the prize is, nor is it a reward they want to confront.

Finding there is nothing holding him back, Jisung crawls out the window and makes his way to his room. His knees dig into the rough brick, leaving scratch marks his parents will question him about. At the moment, though, the future implications are pushed to the back of his head in his need to escape from the stifling atmosphere of Hyunjin.

There is the unmistakable sound of creaking wood. "Jisung."

When the boy calls his name again, he is already precariously balanced between their houses. His right foot on his tiled ledge, his left foot firmly planted on Hyunjin's.

"If you want you can—if you don't mind, you—I mean—" Hyunjin takes a deep breath. "You wanna come back next weekend? Only three more episodes until the finale."

The way he speaks is tiny and careful. It's fragile, lacking the worry and promise that initially drove him away, and for that, Jisung pauses to consider.

The dark pigment of his attire and his golden complexion blotches the blurred canvas of the pinkish-blue sky suspended from the heavens. It would have made a wonderful photograph—the contrast and the irony and how it felt like the world stopped to wait for his decision. As if time wouldn't stir unless this petite child of only eight years found his voice and replied to the hopeful boy worth a million sunsets.

Jisung answers breathlessly, clutching onto the hem of his shirt, "I don't know."

He lifts his foot off Hyunjin's ledge and onto his. 

The wind howls, the sun drops into the murky abyss, and the blue taste of something promised dies on his lips. 

.

.

.

Hyunjin pushes his cauliflower around on his plate, flipping the veggie over and over. His mind is occupied by sparkly, round eyes and soft cheeks and his shoulders sag further in remembrance of his rejection. 

"Baby, what's wrong?" Chan asks, nibbling on his steak. 

"You're not eating well," says Felix. 

Hyunjin places his fork down. "What if someone doesn't want to be friends with you? Like you want to but they always say no."

"I suppose you should leave them alone then," says Felix. 

Hyunjin shakes his head. "But, you know that they actually _do_ want to be friends with you, but some stuff is stopping them. But... even when you _know_ that, you still want to make them feel better. Like, all the time."

Chan folds his napkin. "Well, you are going to meet a thousand people in your lifetime. And each of them will change you, for better or worst. You will need to be the judge of that change. If Jisung is someone you really believe is worth keeping around, the effort you put into understanding him will pay off. For both of you."

Hyunjin's ears redden. "I didn't even say it was about Jisung!"

"You didn't need to."

"Dad!"

* * *

_True compassion means not only feeling another's pain but also being moved to help relieve it._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jisung mocks Hyunjin's room now, but once he hits middle school, just watch the turns table.


	6. third grade: act one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Bullying, Violence, Homophobic Slurs

One must believe in the perfectibility of man—a relatively well-known statement by acclaimed author, John Steinbeck, coined firstly during his Nobel prize speech. This statement is not the full quote, for the full quote is too long and too specific to the literary audience to be applicable, but the gist of the sentiment should still be easily grasped by a commoner. 

Humanity must have faith in each other for hope to foster. If you perceive in the right light, it can also be interpreted as maintaining faith in yourself as well—believing in the perfectibility of your own being. While to be human is to make mistakes, to be human is to learn from the consequences. 

Adaptability, maturity, understanding—Jisung has his first taste of them in third grade. 

School revives in the middle of August, a red-orange month breaching the faded yellowness of Fall but stained enough with crimson to reflect the frustration of returning students. Jisung feels the redness more than others. Summer wasn't kind to him, so he holds no trust in the following season.

Not to mention, Hyunjin is in his class again because the school board accepts recommendations for class arrangements and no one gave Mr. Kim the memo that this year would be starkly different. 

Jisung struggles to find where he and Jinnie—_Hyunjin_ stand anymore. 

A pang shoots through Jisung's chest and he blames it on the egregious amount of _Coca Cola_ consumed at recess. 

Really, who cares that he's not Hyunjin's priority anymore. Who cares that the other spends way too long talking to his new groupmates. Who cares that he hasn't spoken to Jisung in weeks. No, it doesn't bother him at all. 

What Hyunjin does no longer concerns him just like how what Jisung does should not concern Jinnie—_Hyunjin_. 

And if Jisung's chest beats when his friend (classmate? acquaintance?) glances at him, well, he'd rather blame it on the _Coca Cola_ for accelerating his tendency for heartburn.

In the end, Jisung's petty and clumsy with words and awkward and quiet and can't look at Hyunjin without running to the bathroom to hide. He'll conceal himself behind graffitied doors and deaf ears, but he's eight years old and he's allowed to be selfish.

.

.

.

Hyunjin, for the few years Jisung has known him, has always been as determined as a provoked bull. When big kid John McNamara best that the scrawny Korean kid couldn't sprint the grass field in under two minutes, the boy trained for two weeks and with an enraptured audience present, he tumbled through the challenge in one. He won a strawberry-flavored _Gogurt_, two _Fruit-by-the-Foot_, and a shining reputation as the new top dog of second grade. By third grade, there wasn't a child in the school who didn't know his name. 

Hyunjin carries a fire in him that burns steadily. His diligent approach to his goals makes him seem so much bigger than the world. And it's that mindset that allows him to approach Jisung with a steely resolve. 

A month passed and the faded autumn leaves bedecked the thin sidewalks and the poorly-trimmed grass field. Children of all grades gathered outdoors to shove net-like leaves into an ill-proportioned pile or pocket orange treasures to raze their classroom later on.

Soon, a contest over the largest mountain begins and while almost everyone participates, Jisung and the kids with allergies stay back. 

Jisung lounges on a bench, watching the clouds move, when a body sits beside him.

_"Hello,"_ they say with slightly-accented Korean.

Jisung stiffens. With his head down and hands tightening, he focuses on his shoes. When the body shifts closer, he tries not to shiver. 

"Not playing?" asks Hyunjin. 

It's hard to articulate what to say when the elephant in the room is swinging its trunk wildly, pounding earthquakes with its gargantuan feet. Jisung's huffs and sends a pointed look his way. _Why are you here?_

Hyunjin shrugs. "I don't feel like playing either." He fiddles with his sweater string, licking his lips even though his dad forces him to carry chapstick every day. "And... I want to talk about summer."

Jisung pushes himself off the bench. 

"No, we can't just act like nothing happened."

Jisung quells his tremors to look him in the eyes. "Why not?"

"Because you're my best friend." Hyunjin holds the stare initiated. 

Jisung nibbles his bottom lip and counting to three, runs to the boys' restroom. He hears an exasperated sigh, but that's okay. He's gone. 

.

.

.

Anyone else would've gotten the message but actions do not always speak louder than words. If anything, it gets worse. 

"Ms. Cicarelli! I can't see the board well! I need to sit near the front!" insists Hyunjin, balancing on his chair with his knees. 

The teacher frowns. "But you were fine yesterday."

"That was yesterday! I think I'm going blind today!"

Mina Myoui is Jisung's deskmate and a relatively nice one at that who mostly ignored him in favor of writing notes to her best friend, Momo, who sat in the back of the room and, coincidentally, right beside Hyunjin. 

Mina raises her hand. "I can trade with him, Miss."

At the same time, Hyunjin collapses on his desk. "Ah! It's getting worse by the second! Slowly... going... dark..."

A chorus of students coos and shouts for his relocation. 

Overwhelmed, Ms. Cicarelli obeys the request. "Alright then. Just collect your things."

He immediately drops the act, picking up his backpack and making his way to the front. Jisung swears he sees a piece of gum discreetly transfer from his hand to Tiffany’s: the worst temptation known to mankind.

“Sup, groupie,” Hyunjin greets as he settles next to him. 

Jisung wants to bang his head on the table repeatedly. 

.

.

.

Every day since, Hyunjin has 'subtly' passed Jisung poorly folded notes like in the movies as though anything on-screen reflected reality. Every day since, Jisung has ignored each one. The messages find a home in his sweater pockets, his socks, his hair, and on weirder occasions, have been handed to him directly by the lunch lady as he received his daily slop. 

Again, Hyunjin passes him a note in the middle of their English test: TALK TO ME, MAIN FEMALE LEAD.

He passes a note back: STOP THIS, SECOND MALE LEAD.

Jisung receives thirteen that day.

.

.

.

Despite his outward disregard, he collects the little papers and shoves them in his sweater holes when Hyunjin isn't looking.

Spoiler alert: He is. 

.

.

.

Hyunjin's actions gradually escalate. He persists and persists and Jisung can't comprehend why. He wants to ignore the other, but he can't because the loudest messages are wrapped in meaning, not grandiosity. Because Hyunjin is bold but careful in his pursuit. He toes the boundary but never crosses. He's there, with nudges to the shoulder and jolly ranchers exchanged under the table, a reminder that's he's open.

_ Talk to me. _

Even though Jisung was the one who walked away.

_ Talk to me. _

Even though Hyunjin is courage in a body and Jisung's dictionary lacks the word.

"Are you ready to talk today?" Hyunjin asks again like a broken record, ever-present with that initial fervor. 

Jisung starts, "I—" He hesitates. He ends.

He can't define courage, but he knows yearning and the overwhelming insecurity that accompanies it. 

.

.

.

The walk home is dreary. 

The tangerine leaves which had buried the desolate streets in a sea of copper journeyed passed Gaea’s abyss, assembling a golden staircase for Persephone’s descent. In her steps, camellias grew, In her shadows, the winds howled and left trees shivering. The result is winter, and she is a product of love.

Jisung understands that love is selfish. Because Hades loves Persephone, he is willing to throw the mortal world into famine. He is willing to throw away the affection of his sister if it meant keeping her daughter by his side.

There is no happy ending, only compromise.

At a table with three plates, three sets of chopsticks, but only one beating heart, the truth of the statement reveals itself. A little boy sits on a wooden chair until eight o'clock. His thighs ache, but he needs to wait for his parents to come home and join him at the table. They do and the little boy thinks this is happiness.

“How is school? ” Father questions.

“I’m doing fine,” he replies.

“How are your grades?” 

“They are fine.” 

“Have you made any new friends?” Mother asks.

Jisung hesitates. “Of course.” 

“With the right people? Not...”

The implication is there and it is red amidst the white noise of their dinner.

Jisung thinks of bright smiles, starry eyes, searching hands, and rooftops. “Of course.” 

The conversation ends.

For some reason, Jisung can’t breathe. He shoves a spoonful of soup into his mouth. It tastes like gym socks.

.

.

.

“Do you want to talk today?” Hyunjin repeats.

Jisung ignores him, taking out his math homework.

Be with the right people. And Jisung isn’t right. Hyunjin isn’t right. They are both wrong and double negatives are only positive in math. Love is selfish, and he chooses to love his parents.

He doesn't consider if he loves him too. 

.

.

.

ARE YOU READY TO TALK TODAY, the note reads.

He receives a dozen that day and more, but he doesn’t keep any of them. A paper in his hair is brushed off. Notes in his sweater pockets collect wool. He avoids Hyunjin's gaze as he rips one and throws it in the trash. 

Bit by bit, part by part, the comet dims. 

.

.

.

When Hyunjin comes to school after the weekend ends, he flinches as he sits down. Jisung can see bruises littering his pale knees, forming irises where the black and blue met. But when he beams at him with that signature grin of his, Jisung brushes it off as a little roughhousing in the playground. He shouldn’t have.

“Do you want to talk today?” Hyunjin asks without avail.

Jisung ignores him.

.

.

.

Little scratches and violet marks marring smooth skin climb in quantity. They used to be miniscule—polka dots sprinkled here and there—but now they soar across his arms and wrap around his thighs in beaded vines. 

Ms. Cicarelli pays it no mind. Hyunjin always gets into fights. He always gets injured. 

Jisung shrivels up in worry. He hates to see the light in the other's eyes dim with each encounter, but he's too scared to ask. Isn't sure he still has the right to ask. 

“Do you want to talk today?” Hyunjin asks with a smile. 

_Yes_, Jisung wants to say. _Of course._ But it's not his place anymore. 

He tilts his head down, focusing on his paper, on the board, on any other object except the newest bruise that graced Hyunjin's chin. 

.

.

.

To most children, Hyunjin is unstoppable. A truly impeccable child with three dodgeball tournaments under his belt, a knack for handball, and overflowing charm that hypnotized everybody following his lead. In fact, Hyunjin is not unstoppable. He is not much of anything but a third grader, and third graders have as many fears as an adult or a newborn baby.

He wears longer and longer clothing that drapes over his knees and slides past his wrists. The arrival of winter means the winds howl louder and the air is icy enough to hurt. He has never been more grateful. 

"Jinnie! The food is done!" Hyunjin hears his father shout from the bottom of the stairs. 

He winces as he pulls a sweater over his head. "I'm coming!"

The tasteful aroma of slightly burnt sausages and broken yolk tickle him as he hastens downstairs, but he doesn't find himself as hungry. 

Chan flips one last egg before dumping it on a plate. He carefully lifts three plates at once and waddles to the table on wobbly legs. Luckily, Felix takes note of his husband's struggle and helps the breakfast reach their destination.

Halfway through eating, Felix notices how his son picked at his rice. "What's wrong? Why aren't you eating?"

Hyunjin shrugs. “I’m not really that hungry.”

“You said that yesterday.”

“I wasn’t hungry yesterday either.”

Chan looks up sternly. “Eat your food.” When Hyunjin slightly turns, he raises his fork. “Now. C’mon. Stop acting up.”

Hyunjin whimpers. “I just don’t wanna eat, papa.”

“Why not?”

He doesn’t answer, only staring at his sleeves as though they held the world’s best _Nintendo_ game.

Chan and Felix exchange a worried glance, and finally Chan finishes his meal with a deep sigh, an exhale that carried his concern in the willowy decibel. “Is something happening to you at school? You can tell us.”

No, he can't. Not this. 

“Hyunjin, you know if you’re having trouble, we're here for you.”

“There’s nothing wrong,” Hyunjin spits out, almost too quick. “Just… can we go to school now?”

Felix frowns, glancing at the clock. “It’s only 7:15.”

Hyunjin bounces in his seat impatiently. “I wanna go a little earlier today. Please.”

The couple again exchanges a conversation with their eyes, but after a few seconds, the contact breaks. More than a few words passed between them.

Chan rises from his seat. “Fine, let’s go to school. Grab your backpack and we’ll go.”

It’s quiet as the pair drive to school, Hyunjin refusing to talk and Chan simmering in something that wasn’t quite anger.

In the stillness of the atmosphere, Hyunjin is reminded of Jisung and his coldness. His newest attempts have brought no fruits. The other's blatant disregard somehow stings more than it should.

_Cheer up,_ he tries to tell himself, but he waivers.

It’s as though he is in the north pole, climbing up a mountain with no gear, no grip. Although he feels a strange sense of duty to Jisung, tangling them together, he cannot swim below zero before frostbite drags him under. 

Their arrival breaks his reverie and Hyunjin unbuckles his seatbelt.

A strong hand circles his wrist. “Hyunjinnie.”

He flinches but turns around. "What—"

Warm lips press against his left brow. Chan leans back into the driver’s seat, but his hand that’s not on the wheel reaches forward to caress his son’s cheek. “I love you, okay. You have to tell me when you’re in trouble. _If_ you’re in trouble.”

His stomach churns. The stinging burn of tears lines his lower lid. “I will.”

_ I won't. _

And there he stands, watching as their car becomes a dot where the sky met the Earth.

Shakily, he moves his legs inside the school where barely anyone resided. He scans around quickly, trying to find a place to hide, but before he could twitch, hands grab his collar. Another pair shackles his forearms. Hyunjin doesn’t even try to resist as they pull him out of the school grounds and towards a back alley behind the convenience store across the street.

A kid taller than him, stockier than him, older than him shoves him against a wall. “You think that because you come to school a little earlier, you’d be able to avoid us?”

A sharp stomp attacks his side, the wind knocking out of his abdomen. Hyunjin holds in a whimper, hand coming up to clutch his stomach.

The light flickers quick, the oil about to run out.

.

.

.

Jisung is a simple child who likes simple things. Bread without butter. Cereal without milk. And especially milk without chocolate. He is bundled up to his nose, a red scarf wrapped around his face several times and wearing a pink marshmallow jacket reminiscent of the _Pillsbury_ doughboy, walking to the convenience store to buy a milk carton with the single dollar he discovered under his bed.

As he pays for his drink, the old man behind the counter seems troubled.

“What’s wrong?” Jisung asks.

The old man mumbles. “I think some dogs are roaming about the back of my store nowadays. I always hear a racket.”

If Jisung listens close enough, he found that he could actually hear some clatter from the back wall. “Did you check?”

“Nah, if it’s just dogs I leave ‘em alone, not like they hurt business,” he explains. “Besides, they’re usually gone in a few minutes. Here’s your milk, kiddo.”

“Thank you.”

While he had technically finished his business, Jisung could not shake what the cashier told him. Dogs are one of his favorite animals—though he likes practically any—and there were dogs right behind the store. He knew he probably shouldn’t search for them but he was only going to look. He won’t touch them, so it’ll be alright.

Instead of crossing the street to school, Jisung turns his heel so he could wander into the back alley. He normally wouldn’t go there as it is dark and permeates an ominous aura, but_ dogs._ As he approaches, the clamor increases. He pauses once he enters the alleyway. The noises had gotten less animalistic and more human in nature.

“Cry out, bitch!” he hears a voice hiss.

A struggle. A cry.

His heart races, pounding intensely as the familiarity of the voice became apparent. That’s Hyunjin. Why is Hyunjin here? Jisung unconsciously steps forward, the fabric of his clothes rustling, and he could finally see two looming figures hunched over a crouching body.

Hyunjin tenses, gaze darting his way, and they connect. The smallest amount of hope lights up his eyes, but Jisung can’t move. Black and blue. Black and Blue, the color of his face, the color of it all. He’s frozen, He’s dizzy.

The three bullies don’t hear him, and he doesn’t know if that’s a blessing or a curse. “God, you even sound like your homo parents!” a ginger one snaps, pulling on the victim’s hair, but Hyunjin never breaks eye contact with him.

_ Hannie. _

Jisung can't speak.

_ Help me. _

Jisung is scared. 

The faith in his stare fades out into a stronger emotion, and it’s too late—three more kicks and a well-aimed punch to the gut too late—before he steps in. “Excuse me…”

The bullies don’t even wait to listen to him. The tallest screams, “Shit!” and they disperse in the opposite direction.

Hyunjin lays there, arms curling around his knees.

Jisung clambers to him hesitantly. He’s unsure whether to touch Hyunjin or to call for help. Jisung’s still trembling in place.

Finally, he decides to pull lightly on the other’s arm to help him up. “J-Jinnie, let’s go.”

“Why didn’t you help me?”

Jisung drops his arm and Hyunjin leans against the wall, cheek swollen. “What?”

“Why didn’t you help me?” he repeats, voice wobbly and weak.

“I couldn’t.”

“You couldn’t or you just didn’t want to?”

Jisung didn’t know what to say, what Hyunjin wanted to hear. Because he didn’t want to make excuses for an action he had nothing to defend himself by. He could not utter even a simple apology, a frog stuck in his throat, an unknown fear still gripping him.

Hyunjin scoffs and he whispers quietly, “You can’t speak to me here either.”

Jisung licks his lips but the dryness cracks his very being. The events swirled too fast for him to grasp it, too fast for his mind to comprehend the actions. Shock is a mighty drug. He wishes it provided more than what he’s been dealt with.

“I really can’t believe you,” Hyunjin continues. “You know, this entire year, I've been trying to be friends with you. I talked to you again. I tried playing with you again. I did everything I could because I thought you were someone who'd change. No, that’s just who you are.” Hyunjin says harshly, spit flying, eyes red. The purpling bruise on his stomach throbs, but not as hard as his heart.

Jisung stutters. He can’t talk. There is no way to respond, not during this supernova.

“You never did anything for me, not even now, when I needed you. You just didn’t bother. You don’t care about me! I wonder if you’re able to care about anyone.” His face crumples like used paper, and he takes a deep, staggering breath. A resonating staccato soaked with fatigue. “My dad said that if you really wanted to be with someone, you'd try for them, and you know what?”

Jisung remains silent, feeling the earth falling to pieces: the dirt, the clouds, the tiled bricks of the one-story buildings gravitate towards infinity.

Hyunjin begins to sob. “You're not worth it.”

He doesn't wait for Jisung as he limps away, tears leaving a trail of stars in their wake. The sky is falling, and it’s no one’s fault but his.

Jisung is left alone in the alleyway, cushioned by a grimy cement wall that barely held his quivering body upright. His chest aches, his lungs sting, and It hurts, he realizes belatedly. It really, really hurts.

This is heartbreak, he understands, more than he understood love or loyalty. It's an anguish that ruins you, wrecks you, wholly and completely. Like a bulldozer to the chest, where your bracketed ribs cave in and your lumbering heart can't breathe. You can't breathe, because it's constricting, because it _hurts so bad._

He hates it. He hates himself.

* * *

_ It is all these choices we could have made, the things we might have done. We see them with perfect clarity only long after the moment passed._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It'll get better.


	7. third grade: act two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Bullying

Han Jisung had lived in the busiest district of Incheon, the third-largest metropolitan city in South Korea. 

Los Angeles shares few similarities with Incheon, boasting flashy neon lights that burned the skin and hosting a throng of gossiping citizens dressed to the nines in sky-high heels and crisp business suits. Geometric buildings stacked wall to wall, edgy and sharp, are an architectural repetition favored by her contemporary fashion.

Their humble Korean neighborhood was not as keen. He remembers passing sweltering afternoons in a traditional wooden complex non-conforming to the standard, watching as the willowy smoke from Mother's cigarette drifted into the tangerine sky. 

He simply existed for four years, the days spent languishing in that city hardly cherished and scarcely recollected. 

The impression, however, etched itself on his essence. His soul carries a thin, white wound across the Pacific. A wound which throbs, palpitates, thrums ferociously against Jisung's ribcage, spilling onto the pavement peppered with wilting dandelions.

They lave at his sneakers in meek comfort. They yell out for him to reply. 

He does. 

Jisung lifts his right foot and stomps on the sympathetic flora. The petals tear into scrap, the stem turning brown and twisted. He nearly smashes the fallen milk carton forgotten amidst his fuss. With a sniffle, Jisung kicks the cow across the alleyway, body collapsing. 

The smiling cow looks incredibly pitiful with its right eye broken in and milk pouring from the hole. 

A bell chimes in the distance.

"What's going on back here!" The cashier from before rears the corner, faltering when he spots the child, sullen and pink-faced, on the dirt floor. "What the hell? Why in God's name are you back here? Didn't I tell you there were dogs!"

Jisung turns away. 

"What's wrong with you? Get up! Get up now!"

The old man is met with silence again. 

He grabs the collar of Jisung's coat and forces him out of the alleyway in a grumble. He nudges Jisung forward and when he refuses to budge any more, the man nearly pushes him onto the road. "Go. You've never caused trouble before, so I'm not going to speak with the principal. I'm sure you're just upset that the dogs weren't pups like you thought. If you're hurt, go to the nurse's office, okay?"

Jisung nods, eyes unfocused. 

.

.

.

It takes ages for Jisung to cross the street. He feels like a puppet with a thread sewn into his arms, dragging him without a will to his destination. Half an hour remains before the school bell rings, so his heart orders his limbs to action. 

He walks to the back end of the school where no one above the age of seven dares travel, up a ramp where he meets a mustard yellow door. 

He smacks his head against it three times. 

On his fourth attempt, the door swings open and an angel replaces the wooden expanse. Mr. Kim towers over him, a firm presence Jisung craves to dive in and wrap himself with. The teacher wears a knitted plaid sweater with an cartoon egg smack dab in the middle. 

"Jisung? What are you doing here?"

There are a lot of reasons why he's here. 

In this world, it's because of an accident. A baby made after a winter fling resulting in an untimely marriage, a desperate attempt to save grace in a conservative country. In this city, it's because marriage does not breed true affection, let alone love for each other, for their only son. He's in this city because infidelity is born from the sin of lust. Because it bruises the sin of pride.

Alcohol numbs the mind and the suffocation of burning cigarettes break the lungs not the heart. It lingers on their skin and they strive to rid themselves of the aftertaste. 

Image—it's always been about image. 

Now, on the ramp leading to a small piece of heaven, he's here because of the caged state of his chest, his dry throat, and his wounded soul. He is here because he can't forge relationships with the right people. Because the people who are supposed to be wrong don't feel like it. He's desperate for a semblance of reassurance that he's right, he's right, he has to be. It would all be for naught otherwise. 

It is the walls which close upon him, the emotional claustrophobia. 

"M-M-Mr.Kim!" Thick tears pour down round cheeks as he jumps into his teacher's wooly embrace. It's impossible to plug the leak. It pours and pours out. Jisung wails into his stomach, his throat ripping itself apart to push out the cry. "Wah-hah-hah!"

Quickly, Mr. Kim scoops him up into his arms, inspecting him. "What happened? What's wrong?"

Jisung sniffles. Words clog in his windpipe, choked by hiccups and muffled by snot. "It huh-huh-hurts!"

Gentle fingers usher him into the classroom. Mr. Kim checks for injuries. "It hurts? Where? Where does it hurt?"

Jisung taps his chest weakly. "Here."

"Where?"

"Here. My—_hic_—heart hurts."

"Do you have chest pain?"

"No!" He sobs again. 

Mr. Kim's hands skim his wet cheeks with a tissue. Without a word, he strokes Jisung's hair, murmuring sorry comforts in the space between them. The scratchy nature of the teacher's sweater digs into his skin. For some reason, it calms his soul as though the fabric was blessed with the power to stuff holes into dams. 

It feels like a father's embrace. 

Jisung quiets. 

Again, Mr. Kim rubs his face with a tissue. "Have you calmed down? Can you talk?"

“Yeh,” Jisung hiccups, “Yes.” His head pounds interminably. But then again, he has brought it upon himself.

"Do you mind telling me what happened? We don't have to talk right now if you're not ready."

It takes a long time for Jisung to be coherent. "Me and H-Hyunjin got into a fight. He tried to make up with me—" His vision blurs but the soothing pats on his back encourage him to continue "—but I messed up because I was scared. He hates me now."

"Oh, he doesn't hate you."

"He does!"

"What'd you do?" 

What didn't he do? Jisung turns his head in shame. "I was scared," he eventually offers, quiet as a mouse. "I'm still scared of him and he was tired of it. And it's not his fault, it's mine."

"It can't be that bad."

"He always talked to me first, always said sorry. And when it was my turn, I couldn't do it." Jisung lets out a heavy sigh. "This is it."

Mr. Kim hums, taking a step back to look him in the eye. "I don't know the whole story. I never will. But listen, you are so young. And when you are young, you feel so much. When you are happy, you are overjoyed. When you are sad, you are devastated. Like when you hurt, you'll hurt forever. You won't. Wounds heal and scars fade with time—what you broke can be fixed. Even your friendship."

"He'll say no to me."

"You said no too. That never stopped his faith in you. Life is tough. If everyone gave up when the world didn't work the way they wanted, where would we be?"

Jisung smiles. "In the trash."

"Exactly. In the trash." Mr. Kim ruffles his hair. "Sorry is more than the word. If your actions were that bad, 'I'm sorry' isn't enough. You must give back as much as you've taken, as long as it takes."

"Even if it's for forever?"

"Is he worth it?"

The golden question—one that he debated himself as white light emanated from the next-door window and Jisung could make out the sounds of violins and piano. As he counted the notes received, laying the parchment on his bed, pressing into the indentations of his handwriting. As he followed the unspoken rules rooted in his household: to not speak unless spoken to, to not garner negative attention, to not associate with the wrong things, the wrong people. 

Image—it's always been about image. 

Hyunjin's not worth it. Hyunjin's irritating, troublesome, nosy. He's a dangerous boy who has a warmth that is savory and sweet. He lives in a place where giggles are an addiction; laughter, the greatest drug and it's too bright for someone dark like Jisung. He is afraid of this boy, of jumping into his dimension and finding himself astray in his perception.

But now Hyunjin is lost and Jisung wonders if heartbreak was a justifiable exchange for fear. He longs as intensely as a child is able to, cares in a solemn way his peers can't decipher. 

Jisung could procure a thousand galaxies for Hyunjin and it still wouldn't be enough to return what the other gave him. He took and took and took. He wants to give even though he does not have much to offer. 

"Yes," says Jisung softly. 

"Are you worth it?" asks Mr. Kim. "Because if you don't think you're enough for him, how is he supposed to think that too?"

Jisung's skin has long been dried of tears. He recalls Hyunjin's words. "I'm not worth it. But I'll try until I am."

.

.

.

Plan S.S.T.H.A.B.F.A. (Say-Sorry-To-Hyunjin-And-Be-Friends-Again) commenced when the morning bell struck. 

Children shuffle into the classroom as hectic as a swarm of bees, Jisung entering last to avoid getting crushed against the other bodies. Hyunjin's seat is empty, an uncommon occurrence as he always made a point to be the first to greet Jisung. 

The lack of 'Good morning!' strikes a dagger through his heart, but he forces to ignore the pang that shoots through his chest like a bullet, preparing for a forever's worth of groveling. 

Ten minutes pass. 

Jisung twiddles with his fingers and nibbles on his lip. A shudder rumbles through him when the door opens, revealing Hyunjin.

He looks gaunt, an oversized sweater slung over his thin body that he wasn't wearing in the morning. The glimpse of the name "NICK" written on the tag sticking out implies it's not his. No one pays him any mind as he barges in, not even the teacher, who takes one glance at him and quietly marks him late. 

As the other takes his seat next to him, a snap of boldness bites Jisung. "Good morning."

Hyunjin grabs his English textbook and roughly tosses it onto his desk.

"How are you?"

Hyunjin flips to the page written on the board.

"Did... you think... the homework was hard?"

Hyunjin continues to ignore him. 

That's okay, Jisung reminds himself. He'll try again later. And he does. A dozen more times throughout the hour. 

The recess bell rings and Hyunjin runs too fast for him to catch. He bolts out of the classroom and when Jisung skitters after his shadow, the other snags the sleeve of a student from the class next door—Lewis, he remembers vaguely—to play soccer. He knows Jisung detests the sport. 

Nonetheless, Mr. Kim's advice is inscribed on Jisung's heart. Change brings change, even if he's scared for it. 

.

.

.

Weeks pass and Hyunjin still can't figure out Jisung's angle. The other should be over-the-shoulders ecstatic that his loser self wouldn't be pestering him anymore. Instead, Jisung sits on the benches by the field every single school day, cheering him on loudly whenever he makes a goal. 

A small hand smacks the back of his head.

"Sam! Wake up! We're in the middle of a game!" yells Changbin. 

Hyunjin notices that he's holding a soccer ball. A throng of boys and girls surround him. 

"Sorry!" he yells back and kicks the ball to a nearby teammate, completely missing him by a few feet. He was usually an exceptional athlete, but Jisung's stare burning into him did the worst on his psyche. 

His friends call for a break. When he stops at the drinking fountain, he should've known Jisung would clamber after him. He tries not to be fazed. Serves him right for the damage inflicted on his heart. 

"Jinnie!" Jisung shouts and that means a lot for his soft-spoken character.

For once, Hyunjin's fragile disposition works against his mind's intentions. His body responds, shifting to that pleading voice. He catches himself, shoving his head almost inside the water fountain. 

"I—" Jisung pants heavily "—I'm sorry. I was wrong. I know I was. I should've helped you. I should've been there for you. I was—no, I _am_ your best friend and I should've done something... I'm so sorry."

This is the longest he has heard Jisung speak and a month ago he would have bottled up those words in the prettiest vial like a fool. He douses himself with the cool haze of the water fountain. Hyunjin wishes it could wash away his petty words. They don't mean anything. 

"I'm sorry. Can we talk again?"

Hyunjin pulls his head up abruptly. He scoffs. "Why should I when you never did?"

"I was wrong," says Jisung, hands wringing. "I want to be friends with you again."

Moments of casual dismissal swim to the forefront of his memory, scorching him, churning his insides. An irrational anger sparks. How come the moment Hyunjin stops trailing after Jisung like some dog, Jisung opens his arms to make amends? Why did it take him leaving for the other to value him? He wasn't anything more than some sidekick to fuel his ego. 

"Were we ever?" Hyunjin turns. "I want nothing to do with you. Just go."

Jisung Han is cruel. 

.

.

.

Hyunjin bumps into Jisung on the school steps, a fresh bruise marring the right side of his face from his weekly rough-up. 

Jisung visibly recoils at the wound, but his hands clutch at the straps of his backpack and he approaches him boldly. His hand digs inside his pocket, a small white paper emerging with it. 

Before he could speak, Hyunjin plows past his readied figure. 

He doesn't care. Not at all. 

This continues every day until the next week, a familiar action with an unfamiliar actor. That same letter and that same tenacity. The repetition emotionally exhausts him. 

"I'm sorry," Jisung repeats, every day at the same time without fail, without a trace of doubt. 

Hyunjin has been told he's full of stars by a dozen of people, but they've never met Jisung—firm, persistent, a steady inferno blazing in the monotony of space. 

"When will you stop?" Hyunjin asks once. 

"When you tell me it's okay again," replies Jisung, and there's a fire in there that says he'd wait forever. 

But that's stupid because Jisung doesn't mean it. 

"You're stupid," says Hyunjin and he walks away, wondering what that letter could possibly contain. He wonders and he never gets an answer. 

He plays soccer during recess and Jisung is not there. He feels like something is missing despite being surrounded by so many friends. 

.

.

.

Winter break draws near and Jisung remains on the steps, the only difference being that a crowd gathers to watch the spectacle. It would be naive to think these interactions would be kept to themselves when so many students came to school at the same time as them or earlier, but now there's a layer of embarrassment over the whole ordeal. 

Hyunjin pestering someone doesn't seem like news, but the class Ice Prince pursuing the reverse is the spiciest piece of gossip to reach their elementary school. 

Frankly, Hyunjin isn't embarrassed. Not even an acquaintance of such a word, but Jisung, on the other hand, shies away from massive collections of people. He's seen firsthand how much Jisung hates crowds. Felt in in Jisung's tight grip when they held hands during the Halloween parade, in the tell-tale tremble of his fingers.

Even now, Jisung clutches his backpack closer to his chest as Kindergarteners stare on at his lettered confession with wide eyes. He flinches when their classmates giggle a bit too loudly but his hands continue to raise in an offering. He's still trembling. 

Hyunjin's sick of it. He is sick of this crowd that deems it acceptable to make a novelty out of him. 

It's the end of Winter when Hyunjin accepts the envelope. Its body is crinkled and the sides adorn small tears. 

The bright smile he receives falters his steps; it's unraveling, how he smiles, undoing the precarious strings holding his resolve together. 

Jisung wasn't so bothered by the crowd after all. 

.

.

.

Hyunjin twirls the letter between his fingers, memorizing the bends that shift under his skin. It's a dainty letter. It's not heavy and shows no abnormal protrusions. He rubs over two subtle indents in the shape of thumbs and remembers that the person behind it is as dainty as the note. 

A small hand cuts through his view and snags the corner of the envelope. 

"Is this it?" his friend, Changbin, asks. His cat-like eyes twinkle with mischief. 

"Is what it?" Hyunjin's arm darts forward to retrieve the letter. 

Changbin, despite being shorter, is faster and dodges the grab. He wiggles the letter with a taunting grin. "Jisung's love note. Everyone's talking about it. I heard from Johnny that he's been confessing his undying love for you every single day and won't stop until you _marry_ him."

"Shut up!" The jabbing queer undertones poke into a sore spot. He tries not to blame Changbin, but it's hard to not grow hostile. "That's not what happened and you know it."

He makes another attempt to get the letter, failing when Changbin twists his body in the opposite direction. "C'mon, waiting for you every day? That's so creepy."

"Stop. Leave him alone. And give me the letter back. It's not yours."

"You can't be serious," whines Changbin. "You're not gonna tell me what's in here? Maybe it's a wedding proposal."

"None of your beeswax."

"Really? How about this?" Changbin teases the envelope open. He begins the rip the top part out. 

Hyunjin lurches forward. "Give it back!"

_"Dude!"_

"Changbin!"

"It's just a stupid letter!"

There's a flash of red and its scarlet ambiance fuels and untapped rage he rarely touched. Hyunjin pushes Changbin roughly, propelling the other back a few inches. It doesn't hurt—Hyunjin doesn't have that capability—but the shock that reverberates throughout Changbin's entire body is real. 

While his friend remains still, Hyunjin steals the envelope, shoving it in his pants pocket. 

"Sorry, Binne," Hyunjin says, ears pink. 

Changbin, despite his shock, understands. His teasing facade gives way to a softer concern. "It's okay. I started it. You don't need to say sorry when I was being mean. I should know not to make fun of him anyway. You get all gooey."

Hyunjin lightly shoves him. "I don't get all gooey! I just don't like it when someone's mean to a-a," he hesitates, "another classmate!"

Warmth strong enough to quell the turmoil spreads over him. Changbin gave Hyunjin a hug. "If you're that gooey, maybe you should actually open it and read what's inside instead of being dumb over it."

"It's not that easy. It wasn't some fight."

"Hm. If you say so."

"That's it?" Hyunjin lifts his head in surprise.

"Yeah. I can't make you do what you don't want to. You don't have to forgive someone if you don't want to. I don't know Jisung either, you do. I think talking to him will make you feel better is all, but take your time."

Hyunjin breaks out into a grin. He surges forward, gathering his friend up in his arms and squishing him with all his might. "You're one chill baby pizza, Binnie!"

"Ugh." Changbin gags. "You're being extra gooey today."

"I'm gonna tell Seungminnie you said that and he won't give you hugs anymore."

"Don't you dare."

.

.

.

(The letter isn't a letter at all. A purple-orange-pink giraffe winks up at him weakly.)

.

.

.

Hyunjin is slammed against the alley wall. His back rubs into the brick, digging into the fading bruises from the last session. He curls into himself. When he was younger and less experienced, he fought back, but he found it only meant they gave it to him worse next time. He limps to the side, coughing when the largest bully, Edgar, smacks him across the face. 

"Sup, bitch. Didn't see you the other day," another, Andy, sneers, punching him in the stomach. "Say something!"

As damaged as his pride is at this point, Hyunjin whimpers, unable to find tears to weep anymore. He'd never be ashamed of his parents—he'd rather die first—but he resents his bullies for making him feel like he should. They force him to compromise the honesty he promised his father. They force him to lie about his pain. 

_It hurts,_ he wants to scream. 

"I-I'm sorry," he sobs, bringing his arms over his head.

Stop. Please Stop. 

_Click._

Angry hands yank backward from his body. 

Hyunjin shifts his head towards the sound groggily. His vision is blurry, but he focuses on the petite figure framing the alley opening. He chokes. He nearly goes hysterical. 

He shouldn't be here.

He'll get hurt. He'll—He'll—

Jisung stands as firm as a stone, a large, firetruck red phone in his hands. 

"Give us your phone," demands Andy.

Jisung shakes his head. Despite his slight stature, Hyunjin sees him as tall as life was long. He's confused. He wonders if he fainted and this was all a dream because there's no way Jisung would be here. Not for him. 

_Click. _

When the older kids approach, Jisung frowns. "Come any closer and I'll send it. If you leave Hyunjin alone, I'll delete it. Even if you take this phone or hit me, I can just ask my Dad to get me a new phone and I'll have the pictures back."

The bullies look feral, Andy ready to maim, but Edgar grips onto his accomplice's arm and forces him to walk away. 

Hyunjin is left crushed against the garbage, vibrating with residual fear. He hears the footsteps of their leave but phantom pains attack him. He pushes himself up into a sitting position and raises his knees to his chest. 

New, lighter steps approach him. 

A hand is held out to him. 

He stares at it, eyes trailing down the tan arm to its owner who smiles at him nervously. 

"Why?" he asks, a whisper. 

Jisung shrugs. "I want to try. For you. This is the first time, but I'm okay with many more. As many as you want. I'm okay with it now. I won't go away anymore. For you. Always for you."

His hand is still outstretched. Hyunjin takes it.

Now, he could feel the trembles in the contact. There's a quiver to Jisung's mouth, in his knees, and Hyunjin is awestruck. 

Jisung helps him to his feet and tries to let go, but Hyunjin turns his hand over, intertwining them instead. The softest gasp escapes the other and he squeezes. 

He wonders if he should forgive Jisung, but concludes that it's useless. From the moment his best friend appeared, he already had. 

.

.

.

Jisung and Hyunjin sip on their milk cartons gingerly. _Hello Kitty_ bandaids decorate Hyunjin's body courtesy of the younger. 

Hyunjin tilts his head toward Jisung curiously. "Will you still be there when they come back for more?"

Jisung grins. "There won't be anymore. I'm talking to the principal later and Mr. Kim is gonna email the parents."

"But you said!"

"We don't keep promises with bullies."

"What if they just get angry and hit us harder?"

"Can't touch us in Juvie."

Hyunjin cackles. "You're so mean."

"An attack on Jinnie is an attack on me," Jisung declares seriously. 

* * *

_Don't walk behind me; I may not lead. Don't walk in front of me; I may not follow. Walk beside me and be my friend._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you will be able to forgive Jisung just as Hyunjin did because his troubles will only continue to get worse.
> 
> Once I post, I don't look back. So, if there are glaring errors or some things don't sound right please tell me.


	8. summer intermission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: brief body Image/insecurity starting "Seungmin Kim wears sweaters" and internalized homophobia

The sweltering heat constructs a blurry landscape out of Los Angeles. Trees shift and alter the outlines of which they are contained as though a dollar-store eraser descended from the sky and tried to rub out nature's acrylic paint. It's a hazy mirage Jisung struggles to differentiate from his daydreams. Even in the cool, air-conditioned box of his room, he sees how the humidity vibrates the streets. He'd rather jump off a cliff than acquaint himself with the scorching California weather. 

While he quietly judges the kids roughhousing on the sidewalks, the window across from his cracks open, revealing a smile before introducing the body.

Hyunjin hops over to Jisung's side of the touching roods and knocks on his window. He mouths, 'Open it!'

Jisung unlocks his window. "What?"

"Don't look so excited, it's only me," comments Hyunjin dryly. "Come over to my house. My dad just bought me Fortnite."

"You don't even have AC in your room," whines Jisung. Last he checked, his phone recorded that the temperature landed in the high eighties. "My room's so cool! Just come over here."

"Can't. I'm inviting more friends over too. You know Minho, Seungmin, and Changbin from class?" 

"No?"

"Sorry, you probably know Lino, Sky, and Lewis better," Hyunjin explains. "Don't mind those names though. They're having an identity crisis."

Jisung frowns. He knows exactly what kind of crowd surrounds Hyunjin, all their names and their habits. It's the result of sitting on the sidelines with nothing to do but observe. Minho Lee, the resident schemer, combined with the explosive chemistry of Seungmin and Changbin is a spicy concoction Jisung knows he'd choke on tasting. 

"I don't know if I can do that," mutters Jisung.

"C'mon! You've never met them before. You never talk," insists Hyunjin.

"I have! Remember that time Minho accidentally launched a basketball at my head. That was a pretty solid 'I'm sorry' and 'It's okay' if you ask me."

"You know what I mean."

"Still. I don't see why I have to be friends with them just because you are," says Jisung. 

Ever since they made up, his best friend has been pushing this 'Let's All Get Along' agenda. At first, it was simple mentions of 'Sky did this' or 'Lewis did that', but the weeks leading up to summer break, Hyunjin has been aggressively stirring his pot of relationships. 

Personally, Jisung is satisfied if Hyunjin remained to be the sun by which their planets orbit. Always around, never touching, acknowledging each other's existence under the mutual understanding that without his gravity tying them together, they'd swing out of each other's circuit, drifting away into distinct galaxies. He's happy with that.

Hyunjin shrugs. "I don't like splitting my time and love between my best friend and my friends."

Jisung tries to fight the syrupy sensation spilling from his heart. Best friend. "Love is not a pie where the more slices you have, the less pie per slice. There's more than enough to go around."

"It's not just that, I—" He flushes pink "—I want them to see how cool you are. You aren't exactly the... most sunny dude. I just want them to see what I see every day—my best friend who watches way too much Spongebob."

Jisung knows what their classmates say behind his back. They think that because he's from Korea he can't understand their derisive whispers that thrash at his subdued nature. He doesn't care, really, but Hyunjin has so many feelings and each insult must hit harder than he can comprehend.

Jisung climbs out of his room. "Fine, but I'm only gonna be there for a little bit."

"You won't regret this!" says Hyunjin. His mouth twitches. "What about your—"

"My parents are gone for the summer. I don't need to ask."

The topic is dropped instantly. It's one of those subjects for them. The ones they're terrified of touching in fear of breaking this unarticulated truce. Jisung can visualize the line between him and Hyunjin and knows he will have to draw many more. 

They climb into Hyunjin's bedroom. They boot up Fortnite. 

.

.

.

Seungmin arrives first as expected. He's the most well-mannered and considerate of the three. Jisung thinks of him as the calm to Changbin's storm, channeling the destruction into an entity less likely to gather detention slips. He is sweet and studious and Jisung can see himself getting along with such a character in the future. 

When he knocks, he knocks in the rhythm of _'Do You Wanna Build a Snowman'_ and enters with an amiable smile wide enough to be friendly and small enough to be sincere. "Hello. I'm Seungmin Kim. You can call me Sky if you want."

Jisung won't change his name, but he understands why others might in this anglicized nation. He, himself, contemplated the name 'Peter' before abandoning the idea, desperate to cling onto his small piece of home. 

"Nice to meet you," says Jisung and he means it. 

The trio ends up playing Mario Kart to pass the time, but the calm atmosphere is broken by the cacophonous patter of heavy footsteps and strident screeching. Changbin Seo and Minho Lee are rambunctious storms when they tumble inside without care for discretion. 

Jisung scrutinizes them, assesses them, judges them. He can't help himself. It's how he's been conditioned to react to strangers. 

Minho is the perfect combination of quiet but talkative. He inserts himself between Jisung and Seungmin, his soft voice running a mile per minute. Minho loves basketball and Kit Kat, dancing and BTS—Jisung adores him immediately.

Changbin Seo, on the other hand, is intimidating and hard to decipher. In class, he presents himself as sociable and funny, but Jisung views him as a pipe dream of a friend. Charming, but far away. Friendly, but disinterested. 

Two planets held together by gravity. 

Changbin Seo greets Jisung with a casual head ruffle, breezing past him to tackle Seungmin who was lying on his stomach on the floor. They look at each other like happiness is a person and that person is their best friend. 

Jisung cards his fingers through Hyunjin's smooth locks. Hyunjin, whose head rests on his laps while he plays. Near the finish line, Jisung throws a shell at Hyunjin's cart, costing him the game, and Hyunjin twists his head around to blow a raspberry into Jisung's stomach in revenge. Minho rolls his eyes playfully. 

It's not comfortable, but it's fun. 

.

.

.

Seungmin Kim wears sweaters two sizes too large to cover his chubby body and has chubby cheeks he doesn't like to see in the mirror. Jisung knows this because Seungmin always became sullen after being compared to a Puppy by their classmates, so he stopped referring to Seungmin as such in his head after the realization. Jisung doesn't understand why. Seungmin is the cutest. Not Hyunjin's handsome cute, but adorable cute. 

Later on, Hyunjin's father, Felix, ambles up the stairs to give them a variety of snacks. Well, Felix calls them snacks, but what he hands them are two plates of assorted fruits and vegetables to Hyunjin's dismay. 

They all dig in any way except for Seungmin who stares at the fruits longingly. Jisung notices, everyone does. 

After Seungmin refuses to eat the sliced apples Changbin offers him for the third time, Jisung states bluntly, "I don't get why you're watching yourself. You're already cute."

"I-I want to stay cute," replies Seungmin, flushed a pretty pink from Jisung's matter-of-fact tone. 

The sky is blue. The grass is green. Seungmin is cute.

"I think you'll always be cute. You're just a cute person. Besides," he offers an apple slice, "fruits are good for the body."

Seungmin cheeks redden. His trembling hand accepts one of the slices. 

Changbin pouts, torn between appreciative and jealous. He tugs the still blushing Seungmin to his side, squeezing Jisung's arm as if to say 'thanks' but also 'back off.' Minho hands him broccoli. 

Jisung is confused. He was spouting facts. 

Hyunjin smiles at him brightly so Jisung chooses not to dwell much longer on the anomalous state of his acquaintances. Ice breaks and deep into the evening, Jisung wants to say they're friends.

.

.

.

(They are. And if he forgets, Seungmin's warm hugs and Changbin's sly winks and Minho's boisterous laughter tell him over and over and over again. Hyunjin holds his hand tighter and Jisung remembers that love is not a pie and he has plenty of it.)

.

.

.

A routine starts to form. The four of them congregate at the Bang-Lee's, fiddle with video games while bickering, and continue to argue their way into whatever ice cream shop, convenience store, or community park willing to take them. There are few spots that could handle their patchwork conglomeration, but it's reaching ninety degrees, and they're ready to get kicked out of every establishment on the black for a whiff of Autumn. 

"And don't you little shits every step inside here again!" the restaurant owner gripes.

They were recently caught shoving breadsticks into their sweaty shirts without ordering a single glass of water. It was Minho's idea. 

Changbin, ever the rebel, sticks his forbidden finger at the adult's back, but when the owner turns back around, he's the first one to scream, "LET'S BEGONE, THOTS!" at the top of his lungs. 

They run a good two blocks before Jisung tires and they collapse on a nearby bus bench with no intention to get on a bus. The quaint old lady subtly distances herself from the perspiring children dampening the station. 

Jisung pants heavily. A curiosity remains. "What's a thot?"

"My sister," says Seungmin, winded, "says it's a person who causes trouble."

"So, we're thots?" Hyunjin asks clearly. Jisung hates him for his athleticism. 

Changbin grins. "Yeah, we're the top thots. The thottiest."

Minho, who presumably knows the real definition of the word, is uncharacteristically harsh when he says, "Never call us top thots again, you loser. I swear to God."

"Aren't you an atheist?" asks Jisung. 

"Gesundheit," says Hyunjin. 

While they discuss amongst themselves, Jisung hears a melodic_ ting_ followed by the slightest breeze. His eyes are drawn to a gargantuan music note relaxing on the roof of a store and through the window he sees a sweat-free teenager typing away at her phone.

"Guys," he says, "Let's go in here. And try to be quiet. I actually want to chill."

Changbin snickers, "Pun inten—?"

"Quiet," says Minho, pushing forward. 

They wander into the store and the teenager with her bubblegum popper spares them a glance before returning to her endlessly dinging phone. She doesn't look like the type to work in a music store—too flashy, too bored—but that's exactly what the group needs in a supervisor.

They take advantage of her apathy and spread. 

Hyunjin and Seungmin discover an abnormally large tuba and with twin smirks, lug the monstrosity over to the much smaller Changbin who had been stacking the bongos. Minho finds a fascination with the wind instruments. He plays a soulful rendition of 'Old Town Road' on the harmonica that even makes the teenager nod at him with respect. Jisung, contrary to popular belief, is not attached to Hyunjin's hip and wanders off on his own. 

The store is not prodigious in any manner, but it is vast in width, stacked wall to wall and aisle to aisle. Instruments are organized by size and then by color. Some hang from the top shelf, their bodies shaped like stars, like moons, intricate constellations of silver and gold. Others mimic dominos and are placed delicately in a row. Some instruments are wooden. Some are strong. 

He can barely differentiate some from others. What makes a mandolin different from a lute? Or a banjo? Or a sitar?

He finds the classical instruments in the back, a little further from where the violins and cellos mark the shift in scenery. He's now far enough where the blaring trumpet his friends are tooting becomes another echo. 

He sees the side profile of a woman hunched over a mid-sized instrument. A pretty little ditty sings when she strums and Jisung is mystified. Graying hair streaks her once brown lock and when she turns to him, her faded blue eyes mimic the color. 

They size each other up. She stares down his ratty shorts, jersey, and crooked snapback. He fixates on the instrument cradled in her arms, curved and unassuming. 

It's a guitar. He's not utterly inept. It's the most well known and most played instrument as far as he is concerned. Up close, basking in its beauty, he understands why.

Unlike her frail appearance, the woman has a deep, raspy voice, an unidentifiable European accent. "Hello, are you here with your friends?"

Ten bangs are heard in the distance followed by hazardous shrieking. 

"No," says Jisung. 

"Then, are you here to buy an instrument?"

"Sorry. I don't know how to play any."

"Is there any that you'd like to learn?"

Jisung can't control his desire, can't comprehend where the source of his wonder originates. There's a charm in the sleek beige of the guitar. He meditates on how the rough strings would feel under his clumsy fingers. He heard her play for a moment, an instance, a blip in time, but he_ needs_ to hear it again. 

"Yes," he murmurs. 

She gestures to the seat beside her as an invitation and he takes it. She places the guitar in his hands and he lets them roam. They travel down the spine and smooth over the body. He hesitates a little, but his fingers promenade across the strings. He flinches when the guitar groans at his messy poking as if in protest of being in the presence of an amateur.

"I'm Christina Pogroszewski," she says softly. "I own this store. I also offer piano lessons."

"Oh, I don't have money."

"The first few lessons are free."

"How much after that?"

"Ten dollars."

She's lying. He saw the sign outside that had tripled the proposed cost. She could be tricking him. His mother always taught him to be wary. 

But, it's adrenaline that rushes through his veins, making him sweat, making him desperate. He can't hear his friends' banter over the beating of his heart thumping in his ears like a Metallica drum solo. It's so loud. His body is an oasis. His body is an entire temple, but he's never been louder in his life. 

Jisung tries to bite down on his desires. How could you be enraptured by a few notes? How could you do this to yourself? Every muscle in his body sings at the same pitch, vibrates on the same frequency. The organs of his body come together to scream: _do it, you junkie, try it. _

"I can't do it right now, but," he tries to restrain his excitement, "how about next week?"

The woman grins, revealing the happy wrinkled of her face before taking the guitar back. "Oh, I'm sure none of your friends will mind if you stay for a crash course."

Jisung feels out of place with his snapback low and sweat stains tainting his shirt. Yet, when Ms. Pogroszewski guides his awkward hands onto the cold steel of the strings, there is no word to describe how grounded he felt when the guitar sang. 

He is ten years old and he can define first love: it begins and ends with music. 

.

.

.

The music store becomes their spot. It never gets old, according to his friends, and Minho even manages to charm the teenager into giving her name, her time, and her story. They don't question Jisung disappearing for the hour. They get that sometimes he needs space. 

They don't know about how he gets high on A-sharp, how he gets blown over with satisfaction when his fingers produce the right key. People liken him to someone passive, but he's never been more alive, carefree, and considerate than when he's sitting beside his teacher, waiting to learn another song. 

He pays for the guitar lessons with the money his parents left him for food. He eats and snacks at the Bang-Lee's. He'll do whatever he must to ensure freedom. 

It is music that drives his summer. It is the summer he is in love with. 

.

.

.

The inferno of summer rolls by with a brilliance. Jisung feels a lightness like he's never experienced. 

Childhood is the red licorice Changbin bends to make motley polygons. It is the grapes Seungmin throws in his mouth. It is Minho's giggle when he whispers into his ear about anime, movies, and mint. It is Hyunjin and his starry eyes and nose and teeth tilting towards him like happiness is a person and that person is Jisung. 

They are tangled in a circle in Hyunjin's living room. Legs knit with legs. Arms criss-cross with arms. _Phineas and Ferb_ speak in the backdrop as they talk to each other. They snicker and titter, but Jisung has to use the bathroom, so he rips himself from the human quilt and meanders down the hall. 

When he finishes his business, he spots a large object covered in cloth in the corner of the downstairs living room that he hasn't noticed before. His heart races and he speeds down the stairs to pull off the cover. 

It's a guitar, except it was smaller. It was smaller and sweeter and no, it's not his noble, beige guitar, but it's still beautiful. He doesn't hear the new company that sidles beside him.

"You play guitar, Hannie?"

Jisung whips around and meets the soft eyes of Hyunjin's other father, the one he has only seen in picture frames since their initial meeting. Chan is a contradictory force, hard lines and soft words, and he is even softer when his fingers dance along the guitar and the guitar chirps merrily. 

Jisung, starstruck, nods. 

He's still nervous around Hyunjin's parents. They like each other as Mothers and Fathers do, but neither of them is a Mother, and he doesn't see what's so wrong about that but his parents do, and that's why he's wary. He might catch their virus. He's not sure how he'll get sick. They seem healthy enough, but he's seen the resentment. He witnessed the disgust.

He doesn't want those mellow eyes on him, so he steps away from Chan. Enthralled by such mastery, but scared of his existence. 

Chan smiles solemnly like he gets it. "I'm no guitar expert, but I do use it sometimes for work. I make background music for movies. It's hard but worth it. What songs do you know?"

"Just... what my teacher taught me."

"Hm." Chan lifts the tiny guitar and while it looked silly in his hands, it fits perfectly with Jisung's. "Can you play me a song?"

Jisung's fingers naturally find the chords he memorized. _Sweet Caroline. Knockin' on Heaven's Door. Love Me Do._ They are melodies he dreams of constantly, detailing the soundtrack of his life. 

He hears a collection of gasps and looks up to see his gawking friends. His ears pink.

"When'd you learn how to do that?" asks Changbin. 

"We hang out at a music store every day," says Jisung. 

"Can you play more for us?"

"Sure, but I'm not that good."

Seungmin twinkles. "But you sounded awesome!"

Hyunjin and Minho make a noise of agreement. 

"You guys shouldn't pressure him," says Chan. "That was nice, Hannie. I'll be in the kitchen if any of you guys need anything."

Jisung rubs his neck. "Guys, it's really not that big of a deal."

Hyunjin tilts his head. "Why not? You love it, don't you?"

Jisung can't help but smile to himself. "Yeah, I do."

Seungmin, Minho, Changbin, and Hyunjin crowd around him and coo at Jisung's playing. They slow dance when he plays _Stay With Me_ by Sam Smith. Minho nearly breaks a string. 

When he tires, Chan returns from the kitchen and plays songs more complex and upbeat. They ooh and aah and Jisung finds the sight of Chan ruffling Changbin's hair so normal,_ too normal,_ he buries his nose into Hyunjin's neck before he could drift into dangerous territory. 

They have a sleepover and Jisung slumbers with Minho sleep talking to his ear and Seungmin's cold feet pressing into his. Changbin clings to Seungmin even in his dreams. He believes this sensation could be love too. A second love or another appendage of the first. The definition of the word is so strung out and twisted that he cares not of the origins or the accuracy. Friendship is a mark of his childhood and he'll wear it proudly. 

Hyunjin drowsily presses his hand into his and smiles and Jisung is breathless, happy, in wonder. 

* * *

_Music expresses that which cannot be put into words and that which cannot remain silent._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The guitar at the end wasn't a ukelele. It was just a tinier kid's guitar that Chan bought in hopes that Hyunjin would learn but Hyunjin dropped it after a few lessons and it collected dust. 
> 
> I dunno how instruments and music terms work. I played the violin for a year and dropped it.
> 
> I dunno where Jisung's parents are. Italy or something.
> 
> I was going to tag minor-Seungbin but considering future plot points, it's better to wait until that's done.


	9. fourth grade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Violence from parent to child, So much Homophobia, use of the f-word (no not fuck), and Christian!Changbin with his religion talk

Swift fingers strum _La Vie En Rose_ on silver strings. A swirl of vibrations speaks sweetly of a giddy romance that vivified the moon-kissed pavements of a war-torn France threatened by foreigners who thought they knew better. Jisung allows for its mellow tone to brush his hair behind his ear. He forgets that the guitar under his command is borrowed music. The Bang-Lee's are generous people who understand that the colors of the notes can fill in the monotony of the weekday evenings.

Beside him, a shaky voice as enchanting as Édith Piaf sounds beside him. Jisung traces the unique intonations back to Hyunjin. The Bang-Lee's have their jokes and laughs about how their son has no musical bone in his body, but Jisung knows that Hyunjin is a lake of unrealized potential. Hyunjin's delicate whispers slow to a halt and Jisung wrings the final chords in concert. 

A series of claps echo from the kitchen. Felix leans against the far wall, his plump, rose-pink lip gloss lips forming a smile. "That was beautiful, Hannie."

Jisung blushes from the attention. He can't look Felix in the eye without getting flustered. "It's okay. The song's not that hard to play."

"So humble."

Hyunjin grunts. "I'm here too, dad."

"I know, honey," says Felix. "Hannie, do you have any more songs you want to play?"

He does, he wants to play them all until he's sick of it. Jisung watches the clock and fidgets for his bag. "It's almost dinner time. I think I have to go," he replies. His stomach aches for the savory aroma of meat radiating from behind Felix. 

"You're welcome to stay," offers Felix. 

Hyunjin jumps from his seat. "You should stay! Papa made pork galbi! Your favorite! He's serving it with na-naeng-na—"

"Noodles. Just noodles," Felix interrupts. 

Hyunjin rolls his eyes. "Yeah, that. You wanna eat with us?"

"I'm not sure."

"It'll be fine. Papa's stuck in the studio so we have more than enough to go around," reassures Hyunjin but that's not why Jisung hesitates. 

Despite his exposure to the Bang-Lee's, he fears damnation. He hasn't yet been caught red-handed at the scene of the crime, but who knows how long that'll last. Luck is rarely on his side if he was ever favored by the fates at all. He thinks of home and the arguments muffled by thin walls. He wonders if he has to listen to the crying silenced by the screams. If he'll see three plates accompanied by three pairs of unopened chopsticks. 

On the other hand, he's inexplicably hungry.

His mouth says "yes" before he could stop himself. 

Hyunjin laughs and Felix smiles and Jisung is a gluttonous, envious, and greedy person. They sit at the table and Felix piles slab over slab of meat on his plate. Hyunjin whines over the disproportionate amount of vegetables placed in his soup in contrast. For once, the billowing smoke wafting through the room does not incinerate Jisung's lungs.

.

.

.

By eight o'clock, the two of them are sprawled belly-first on the carpet of Hyunjin's bedroom, heads groaning as they slog through another packet of busywork. Mr. Vasquez is a man of great taste, but his textbook style of teaching is a testament to his growing disconnect with children. They are fourth-graders, not machines. 

Not to mention, the school year inhibited the frequency of Jisung's guitar lessons, occupying the time allotted for practice with converting fractions to decimals and defining lines. It forced him to extend his weekend sessions. 

Jisung writes in another problem. 

Hyunjin asks, "What'd you get for number 17?"

"39."

"What? I got 27! I'm so stupid," Hyunjin whimpers. 

Jisung shuffles his body over to Hyunjin's side and gently explains the methodology behind long division. His best friend struggles with this subject more than anything else and Jisung tries to never belittle that. It's the main reason they don't do homework with their other friends. They weren't intentionally cruel, simply oblivious to their insensitivities. 

An accented voice bellows, "I'm home!"

Jisung's head snaps to the door, curious at the profound exhaustion in Chan's words. Hyunjin pushes himself up. 

"Where are you going?"

"Dad's home." Hyunjin shrugs and walks out the door. 

Jisung wordlessly follows, his footsteps becoming lighter as he reaches the edge of the stairs. He stops himself from descending. 

Felix, a sea of constellations in his own right, is a rolling milky way in the presence of his husband. A sparkle to a star. His chestnut hair bounces as he barrels into Chan's arms. Chan, however tired, presses a music sheet of kisses on Felix who responds with a symphony of giggles, strings plucked in the right places. 

Hyunjin grumbles as he buries his slight body between them, pushing the couple apart to get his own dose of affection from his dad. 

_Honey,_ is said. _Baby,_ is said. _Welcome home,_ is sung. 

Felix presses his rosy lips against Chan's with a content sigh.

Jisung's stomach lurches. Those savages. Those f—

Jisung runs, not for the last time. 

.

.

.

The heads-or-tails temperatures of September land on nimbus clouds in the shape of soggy cotton balls accompanied by a crisp breeze making popsicles out of underwear. Rain pelts against the window as a reminder of the class's confinement. 

Changbin stacks a tower of textbooks on a sleeping Minho. Jisung almost lets out a giggle when the boy manages to balance around ten literary anthologies before Minho snorts awake and the carefully constructed edifice collapses onto the sorry victim without mercy. 

"Who was it!" snaps Minho. 

The perpetrator points to Seungmin who yelps when Minho starts to assail him with punches he learned from _Hajime no Ippo. _

"You thought that was funny?" Minho sits on Seungmin's back. 

"It wasn't me!" cries Seungmin, a stray anthology digging into his ribs. 

Jisung taps Minho on the shoulder and nudges him towards the cackling Changbin whose laughter quickly turns to screams. He zones out after that, preoccupied with last night. Thankfully he calmed down enough to talk to Hyunjin without uncertainty betraying the thoughts buried in the darkest crevice of his mind. 

Women and women. Men and men. It's an equation he fails to derive a solution from. An anomaly, an outlier. Sometimes, men and women cheat. Other times, men and women divorce. But, they are always men and women. It is men and women that kiss dramatically before the credits roll. It is men and women who get married. The reality that Chan and Felix have done it too boggles him in a fashion that turns him sideways. He likes Felix. He likes Chan. But for them to like each other like that?

That's... That's...

"Thank you, Hannie," says Seungmin softly. His hands reach out to tug on his fingers and he chews on his bottom lip like he's embarrassed.

They don't have many opportunities to speak with each other, surprisingly, too busy dealing with their brighter counterparts and Minho Lee who is an entire handful in his own right. Though when they do have time to talk, it's pleasant. 

"It's fine. Binnie deserved it," he says, falling back into his thoughts. 

Seungmin doesn't allow him to. "Uh, do you like dogs?"

"I'm more of a cat person, really."

Seungmin perks up significantly, leaning closer. "Really? I just read this series about these cats in a tribe."

"Armor pets?" Jisung recalls colorful prints with a cat named after a river. 

"No, _Warriors."_

They discuss the various books they've read before, learning each other as individuals and not as an extension of their more outgoing best friends. 

Seungmin's stomach grumbles. "Oh my God," he says with mortification. He makes hurried glances from his stomach to Jisung. "I didn't—It was so—"

Jisung sticks a hand into his pocket and takes out a chocolate frosted_ Rice Krispy._ He hands it over without a word, thinking Seungmin would appreciate that more. And Seungmin does if his eye smile and pink-tinted cheeks are any indications. 

"You hiding snacks from me?"

Hyunjin returned from helping Mr. Vasquez deliver the attendance. Seungmin removes himself from Jisung's side at his arrival. With a huff, Jisung pushes the other's face away until Hyunjin falls backward on his bum.

"Your breath smells like chicken feet," complains Jisung. "I bet you forgot to brush."

Hyunjin kicks Jisung in the shin. "You're such a turd! You know I ate the breakfast burrito!" He leans in and blows in his direction—old bacon bits and stale potatoes. 

"I'm going to kill you." Seungmin scrunches his nose.

"Can't kill what's already dead, Sky." Hyunjin finger guns before sitting right next to Jisung. Pressed side by side, there's barely any breathing room between them.

Normally, Jisung wouldn't mind, but today his body urges him for distance. When Hyunjin frowns at him, he looks away. "Personal space, dude."

"If you say so," says Hyunjin, but doesn't prod further.

.

.

.

Jisung lacks the ability to stop seeing it. He can't differentiate between what his mind is convoluting and what he's been ignoring this entire time. Has Diana always looked at Emily with honey dripping from her gaze? Is the way John teases the Steven playful banter or a hint of a crush? He can't tell if the way Ashley ghosted the edge of Lily's chair was intentional or not. Are they like that too? Can kids be like that too?

He stretched on his toes to reach for a jar of slime placed on the third shelf. Admittedly, it's not that high, but it's still far enough out of reach. 

A flat warmth settles behind him and Hyunjin's paint-crusted hands grab the jar for him. 

Jisung falters. Girls are the ones who are helped. The boys are the ones who help. He's not a girl. He snatches the jar from Hyunjin and grumbles, "Thanks, man." 

He's a boy who'll like girls and help them because that's what's right. That is what's natural. 

.

.

.

Jisung draws a T-chart. One column is written in blue, the other in pink. 

Lucy picks a doll. Pink. 

Archie digs up earthworms. Blue. 

Suzie bakes cookies. Pink.

Minho flies an airplane. Blue. 

Then, it changes. 

Changbin pushes Mina on the swings, cheeks blazing. _Right. _

Irene slips her hand into Seulgi's, laughter dazzling. _Wrong. _

.

.

.

His parents are at the dinner table together for the first time in weeks and it's a disorienting realization.

It's not that Jisung isn't reminded of their existence—Father's shoes lie crooked on the doorstep and Mother's perfume leaves patches of essence on handrails; Jisung can taste the watery orange blossom fragrance watering his eyes. It's the disruptions of the routine that takes him aback. For how long he's been left alone, he's grown accustomed to the independence they thrust upon him.

He sees three filled bowls of food and three opened chopsticks and can't comprehend the flood of emotion that spills into his breast in raging waterfalls. He remembers how much he missed his parents. 

"How was work, dad?" Jisung asks amiably. 

Father's eyebrows knit together. "It was fine."

"Did anything exciting happen?"

“No, just some meetings. Met a few clients. Secured a few deals. Secured—I got us money.”

Jisung muffles a smile. He turns his head. “And you, mom? What did you do?”

She pauses with her chopsticks. Hazy gaze as if being reminded where she was. “Yes, it was nice. Met with some… friends.”

The table was silent, but Jisung tries to break it again. “I—” he hesitates, “—I made some friends too. Three, as a matter of fact.”

“You know how to use that phrase? Aren’t you only seven years old?” Father interrupts.

"No, I'm nine now, ten in two months. I'm in fourth grade." Jisung continues, "My friends are Korean too. We play basketball and tag. They're really cool."

Mother huffs. "As long as you aren't friends with the Bang-Lee's son. I bumped into the dark one at the supermarket." She wasn't speaking to Jisung anymore. "I swear, his freckles look like some sort of disease." 

Jisung's tongue dries. A sudden pain squeezes his voice box shut. Felix and his gentle words and deep voice and stars on his cheeks and across his nose, constellations strong enough to raise a brighter comet. Hyunjin's father, who let him stay for dinner. 

"Probably is," says Father. "Heard it's an epidemic. Son's a f— too, I bet."

"I-It's," Jisung stutters, struggling to breathe. He thinks of Hyunjin and his hands pressing into his and Jisung was happy. "I got 100% on my math quiz yesterday."

"Good job," says Father. "I'm proud of you."

Jisung should be over the moon with the praise but he's trapped swimming upwards in a down current. He remains silent until the dinner draws to a close with the same hurricane. It ends with Mother spilling wine on Father's suit and a jade plate is thrown against the wall as they scream over him, between him, in front of him. 

Glass splinters across Jisung's feet and he's drowning.

.

.

.

Hyunjin worries a lot. It comes with the territory of being Jisung Han's best friend. 

You see, Jisung may sit next to him during snack, lunch, and silent reading time but he's been so quiet. His thoughts drag him away from the conversation and although the other three have gotten used to his mannerisms, Hyunjin's not convinced. Even when he tries to make Jisung smile, he's generally unresponsive, giving a hum or a subdued shrug. 

It worries him. It worries him too much.

Yes, Jisung's not avoiding him, but Hyunjin can't help but feel uneasy at this sense of deja vu. 

.

.

.

Changbin's birthday arrives on the cusp of October. Its burnt edges rub the beginning of November, the month of the turkey, the undeclared buffer preventing the cancer of Christmas season from exceeding its boundaries. He's unbearable the entire week before. He has this annoying tendency to mention it 'casually' in nearly all the conversations he participates in.

("Just letting you know I turn ten in three days. Don't be surprised. I know. I look older," he says, checking his nails.

"I literally do not care," says Jisung.)

Changbin struts into class on Thursday with a _Burger King_ hat perched on midnight locks, hoodie sleeves tied around his neck, crocs blazing. "Sup, peons!"

Minho snorts. "Nice cape, Batman."

"Excuse you, you uncultured swine, this is a mantle."

"Sorry, your holiness." Hyunjin falls to his knees mockingly. "Us plebs don't deserve to grace the fibers of your fancy cape."

"Mantle," insists Changbin, rubbing Hyunjin's hair with a sniff. "You don't have to be jealous, Sammy boy. Despite your baby face, you, too, can become an adult."

"I am a month younger than you."

"Shh." Changbin shoves his ring pop layered finger against his lips. "Children should respect their elders."

Jisung can hear Hyunjin's eye roll from across the room. Seungmin snickers into his hands while Minho drags his sleeves up his arms in preparation for his birthday punches.

Changbin shrieks as the other gets closer. "Touch me and you are uninvited from by Ben 10 party palooza plan supreme!"

"What," says Minho, sleeves falling back down to his wrists. 

Changbin sniffs, procuring a stack of bright fire truck red cards with his face glued on all of them. "It's this Saturday!" he announces to the class, passing them out candidly. "You are all invited! Except for Joseph until he pays me back the quarter I lent him."

Jisung looks over his own card and grimaces when it starts to sing upon opening. All at once, the _Kidz Bop_ version of 50 Cent's _In Da Club_ blasts throughout the classroom, the overlap distorting the lyrics. Jisung ignores Changbin's smug grin, zoning in on the information.

Saturday. Gryphon Avenue. One o'clock. 

His parents rarely grant him permission to leave on the blue moon occasion he decides to ask but perhaps this time he might try again. 

Hyunjin walks toward him, fingers in his ears. "Can you come to the party this time?"

Minho's birthday passed without his attendance. That boy comes from an artist's family when he brought Minho's invite. Who lets their child dress in rags. So much for not caring about who he befriended as long as they weren't—Jisung shudders, trying to avoid eye contact. "I'm gonna try, but don't expect too much. You know how they are."

He flinches when Hyunjin reaches towards him.

Hyunjin blinks, retracting his touch. "I think they'll give you the okay. Binnie doesn't look like much, but his family's impressive. They used to be kind of poor, but then his mom opened up this sick restaurant and it's the biggest thing in town. He might not be far off when he wears that crown, you know."

"I sense compliments. Are you giving me compliments?" Changbin butts in, trademark smirk on display. 

"As if." Jisung huffs but observes the card considerably. 

.

.

.

Jisung lets out a breath as he stares at the massive Italianate mansion dressed door to door with _One Piece_ characters. The one aspect not blending into the theme was the daunting cross adorning the threshold. Brook's skeletal face glowers at him as he presses the doorbell positioned in the character's mouth. Somehow, Changbin's family wired the gold doorbell to mimic Brook's laughter. 

He sighs. Rich people.

On the other hand, if the Seo's weren't wealthy there'd be little acceptance from his parents who nodded impressively at his name. Mother kept tabs on all the families on the block. Who was cheating on who, which one got fired and when—gossip is her favorite past time aside from spraying her lungs with pesticide. He'll stick to being thankful rather than judging the elaborate details and gaudy refurbishments. After all, it is his first party.

"My man!" Changbin chirps when he opens the door. Similar to the decorations, Changbin is dressed as Brook, complete with the top hat, curly wig, and stuffy tuxedo. 

"Happy birthday," says Jisung, handing him his present. It's a poorly wrapped box but reasonably sized. 

"Thanks, dude! Come in! Everyone's in the back." Changbin grabs the gift, guiding Jisung inside.

The interior is as hideously garish as the outside shell. A gargantuan crystal chandelier dangles above them, the twinkling lights winking at the duo. The sofas are slick velvet, a shiny aesthetic belonging to the style of Beverly Hills rather than the rough undercurrent of Los Angeles. 

"You're a little late. We're in the middle of musical chairs."

"That's okay," he says, uncomfortable under the intense gaze of Jesus Christ who was hung upon an archway. "You're Christian?"

Changbin hums. "Protestant." Jisung's stomach turns, but they reach the backyard soon enough. Changbin slams the glass doors open. "Sup, suckers! Who's left?"

Hyunjin is laughing his lungs out at Minho who was knocked onto his bum. "Not Lino!" He twists his body to avoid a poorly aimed crotch shot.

"He cheated!" complains Minho. "He pushed me off!"

"Poor baby," says Jisung, stepping over him. 

Minho grumbles as he crawls toward the crowd. Seungmin hands him apple juice to soothe his defeat. Hyunjin attempts to greet Jisung with a hug but Jisung curls his fingers for a fistbump. Hyunjin hesitates before dropping his arms to return it. 

"I'm happy you came," says Hyunjin gently. 

"Me too," says Jisung, smiling shyly. 

Hyunjin seems to appreciate the gesture for he gathers enough bravado to pull Jisung into a fully-enveloped hug. 

"SAM! HURRY YOUR FAT BUTT UP! THE SONG'S ABOUT TO START!"

Hyunjin smiles apologetically. "Sorry. Time to win a Micky D's gift cards." He jumps in right as Chainsmokers boom from the stereo. 

The party takes off from there. Jisung and Hyunjin's unspoken reconciliation illuminates Jisung's mood. He indulges in the flashy ornaments and anime-themed cupcakes forming triangles and squares. He spends a good majority of his time with Seungmin playing board games he's never seen before. He extends his social circle by fraternizing with a few of the girls—of whose names he forgets by the time they leave. Hyunjin wins musical chairs and they hang out and talk and laugh until the next activity. Jisung almost forgets the roots of his predicament. 

He has a good time, even when the piñata is speared through with a steel baseball bat by Minho who proceeded to monopolize the resulting stash of candy, making deals with their sugar-addicted classmates. Even the fruit punch that tasted of sour apples doesn't put a damper on his mood. Hyunjin hand tickling his ribs in the middle of a game of Mafia is reason enough to be satisfied. 

Changbin's mom reveals a three-tiered cake slathered in Persian blue icing and topped off with those special candles that spin when their lit. They chant and sing _Happy Birthday_ and Jisung's hyped up enough to belt out the highest notes in honor of his friend's existence. He can hear Hyunjin's laughter pulsing against his ear. 

Amidst a wave of cheers, Changbin sticks his arm through the center and smashes the insides on Seungmin's face. Seungmin blinks once before lifting the entire cake and ramming his body against Changbin's. 

They fall to the ground wrestling and a free-for-all begins. 

Jisung crawls under one of the dessert tables to escape. He lifts the covers to spectate, immediately dropping it again when he sees Amber belly flop on top of Jackson. Another person wiggles under the table and Jisung reflexively smashes his Luffy cupcakes against the invader's face. 

"Hey!" Hyunjin yelps.

Jisung giggles. "Having fun?" he teases.

Hyunjin growls and buries his face into Jisung's stomach, staining his white shirt. "Dummy," he says, resting his cake-coated face on Jisung's hip bone. 

Jisung's giggles fade. Hyunjin's lying on top of him, cuddling him. His heart thuds and he loathes his body for treating his best friend as a threat. Jisung wishes he could receive Hyunjin's warmth without associating his heat with unrealized punishments. He wishes he didn't choke up every time Hyunjin wanted a hug. 

Hyunjin slings his arm around Jisung's waist and he freaks out, pushing him off. 

Hyunjin stumbles back at the force, head banging against the metal bar. His temper flairs and he gets in Jisung's face, teeth bared. "What's your freaking problem? You've been acting like a jerk for weeks! I don't care that you don't like touching me anymore. But then you stop talking to me? You avoid my parents? What the frick's wrong with you."

Jisung pants heavily. He yells, "Nothing's wrong with me. I'm normal."

"Obviously not if you're acting like this. We've slept in the same bed before but now you're treating me like crap. What could possibly be the problem now?"

"I'm sorry, okay. I-I didn't mean to," Jisung tries to explain. "I still like you. I still want to be friends with you. It's just—I—"

"Tell me. Please. It's me."

"Can't you see I want to? But I just _can't._ You understand, don't you?"

"No, I don't because I talk about my feelings like a normal person," says Hyunjin bluntly. After a beat, he sighs. "It's so hard trying to figure you out. You never want to talk about yourself. You never try to and I-I tried to be cool with that, but—" He sighs harshly. "I don't know how long I could be. Why can't you tell me what's wrong with you?"

Jisung snaps, "Stop saying that! It's nothing! Nothing is wrong with me!" He's not wrong. He's right. It's Hyunjin that's wrong. It's his family. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes to hold the floodgates. "I'm sorry. It's been so hard and it's about you but not _you._ It's my mother and my father and—and—I'm so sorry."

Hyunjin's anger softens into defeat like it always does when Jisung brings up his parents. "Fine. Don't tell me. I'm sorry I'm so pushy too but you gotta know how hard it is for me too."

"Of course, I do."

"No, you don't," says Hyunjin. "You're my best friend. And I know I tell you that a gazillion times but when I say that I mean it. Even if we fight, even if I hate what you say, I'm not going to leave you. You're my forever."

There's a conviction in his voice and Jisung wants to believe it. He wants to search inside Hyunjin's certitude. "You're mine too. But as long as you have me, you also gotta know. You'll always have to wait."

"I will."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be," says Hyunjin. "Someday, right?"

"Someday," says Jisung and he thinks someday can come closer if the reward was Hyunjin's smile. 

The dissonance outside dissipates into a charged command redirecting the swarms of children to the pool to wash off. They can hear Changbin’s dad groaning in horror at the thought of the cake bits dripping into the water. They grin at each other and crawl out to join the fun.

.

.

.

The sky blends with the sun, the star lending its vibrant colors to help drown out the muted blues with streaks of marigold and amber.

First, Marcus leaves, then Krystal, and soon the whole class exits the stage in droves. They leave with kisses on Changbin’s cheeks and a splash of arms tightening around the birthday boy’s neck. Changbin is a loved individual. He is hard to ignore and equally as kind. It’s hard to imagine such an incredible person being Jisung’s friend.

Chan's honking could be heard from the backyard, and the group laughs as Hyunjin rolls in disappointment. They were learning how to play _D&D_ from Changbin’s older sister, about to start their campaign. Minho has already left as he carpooled with Steve. Seungmin is staying the night, already changed into his jammies.

“See you, Sam!” Changbin shouts as he rolls the 20-sided die. He yelps as he rolls a Nat 1 and gently caresses an orc.

“I’ll walk you to the door,” Jisung offers, thinking it’s the least he can do after their emotional tug-of-war.

The breeze skims their bare skin when they reach the front porch, inducing goosebumps heightened from the pool’s freezing water.

“Will I get to talk to you on Monday?” Hyunjin asks, ignoring his papa’s strident nagging. “All of you?”

Jisung grins, gums present. “Maybe.”

Hyunjin hugs him when he leaves, delivering a brief peck on his forehead.

Jisung can’t revel in the butterflies he leaves behind. The startling swoop of his stomach is what’s left when he meets with the chagrined eyes of his mother waiting across the street of Changbin’s house.

.

.

.

Mother bends him over the couch and hits him. Her tears wet the back of his neck with each blow. Her screams and expletive assault him.

_ Disgusting. Revolting. Shameful. Disobedient. Sinful. A f— _

Father doesn't hit him. Father never touches him in general, not for a show of affection toward his only son and not even to exact punishment when it is due. He can't recall the last time he's looked his father in the eyes. 

Jisung is told he resembles his mother. He has her nose and her lips. He has her apathy and the hollow curve of her smile. When his mother brings the belt, that's another way he mirrors her: the fear that holds their emotions hostage. 

They shove him into the basement. 

_You brought this upon yourself. You have no one to blame but you._

Her stare holds an emptiness as she slams the door shut near his fingers, uncaring of whether they snapped. There are no bugs. There is nothing inside except a blanket his father leaves him and a small pillow for his head. Jisung wraps the shawl around his tiny body and folds himself against the corner of the room.

He dreams of Hyunjin's curves fitting like a puzzle piece in the dips and ravines of Jisung. Of Hyunjin's lips on his head, knees trembling and chest beating.

Wrong. 

.

.

.

It’s that warped period of the night where nothing feels real and everything feels like another illusion stacked on top of the other—2AM.

Jisung wallows in this insomniac ruse where he contemplates whether yesterday was one elaborate nightmare. He trembled when he walked out of the basement and he tried not to sob when he saw his mother. Father had already left and still hasn’t returned to the house.

Neither of his parents wants to touch or look at him. They rarely spared a glance normally, but today he was a speck of dust sitting on the counter. At least they did not hit him. At least it does not hurt. He doesn’t know if it was a blessing or if the desolate sensation of his chest held the truth as Mother left the table and the room upon his arrival. He wonders if she’s wanted to do that all along and yesterday was just the perfect excuse. He should be grateful. At least she did not touch him. At least she did not yell. She is being kind.

He shouldn't have been near Hyunjin. It didn't matter if Hyunjin is kind and likes him unconditionally. It doesn't matter that he made a promise. Hyunjin is a mistake. That family is a mistake. Loving them—

Jisung scrambles off his bed and flips on his lamplight. He tugs open his bottom desk drawer frantically, the drawer careening to the ground, unloading its contents onto the floor. There are crumpled music sheets from Chan, a neon purple scarf knitted by Felix, and a mini surfboard from Hyunjin from when they went to Australia. 

Jisung clutches them to his chest and looks up. He's facing the mirror and the glare traces the tears in his eyes. He's wrecked. Lines run down his cheeks. And in the pale moonlight, all he sees is his mother in his reflection. The bruises throb harder.

Without warning, he stumbles to his trashcan and throws up. 

Jisung wipes his mouth and tries to ignore how it hurts. The burn remains. His vision disfigures and the solidity of his surroundings blur. He thinks he's out of his mind. He can't hear anything over the sound of his heart pounding in his head. He spots a light at the corner of his eyes—Hyunjin's night light glows in the dark.

Hyunjin, Jisung thinks. He always knows what to do. He always makes it better. 

Jisung climbs out of his room, crossing the gap with rickety knees and hammering the window. The sting of his throat becomes more unbearable the more he waits. Hyunjin finally unlocks his window and lets him in. 

"H-Hannie?" Hyunjin falters at his appearance. He's ragged and broken and hunched over. "Wait here, I'm gonna get papa."

"Don't. Please. I can't face them right now," Jisung whispers harshly. 

"God, what happened to your voice?"

"I threw up."

"You threw—Jisung, what the heck happened?" Hyunjin cradles Jisung's tired face to inspect the damage. 

"My parents got mad at me," he says. 

Hyunjin's breath hitches. "Do—" He looks at a loss. "Do they hurt you?"

"No. This... isn't what usually happens. They don't usually hit me."

Hyunjin shakes his head. "They don't have to hit you to hurt you."

Jisung's vision shakes again and Hyunjin doesn't seem like such a good idea anymore. "Mom saw me with you. She wasn't happy. They got angry, yelled. They hate you guys. They hate me now."

"You know that's not okay, right?"

"I know, but it's my fault for breaking the rules." Jisung repeats, "It's my fault."

"It's not your fault. I'm gonna wake up my parents. You need help."

"I don't want help! Especially not from them!" Jisung raises his voice. "Stop touching me! Let go of me!"

Jisung thinks on a subconscious level, he always blamed his problems on the Bang-Lee's. If they weren't gay, Jisung's parents wouldn't be so mean. If they weren't gay, his parents would have accepted Hyunjin as his friend. He wouldn't have to sneak around like Hyunjin is someone to be ashamed of and Jisung would be happier. If only the Bang-Lee's were his parents, like other people. The feelings he feels for them can't be love. 

"Hannie, this isn't normal," insists Hyunjin, trying to pull at him again. 

Jisung sobs. "You are the last person I want to hear about normal. Your parents are _fags!"_

Jisung regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth. 

Hyunjin is stunned into silence. He drops Jisung's hand. "Get out."

"Jinnie—"

"I'm not joking. If you don't leave right now, I'm going to hit you and I don't want to. Get out," Hyunjin orders. He is red with fury, refusing to meet Jisung's stare in fear of following through with his threat. 

So, Jisung does what he knows best. He runs away. 

.

.

.

When he awakes the next day, body sore and throat smarting, Jisung panics. It's not the slow, deep remorse from when he first lost Hyunjin. It's one that hurries like there is a marathon that can only be completed in record time. He bangs on Hyunjin's window and whimpers when there's no response. He climbs down a tree into the backyard. When he reaches the backdoor, he finds that Hyunjin's dad, Felix, has already opened it. 

Felix has a white apron on, stained with too many sauces, but he's as pretty as ever if a little bit confused and Jisung stares back at him with similar puzzlement. 

"Hannie? What are you doing here?" says Felix, taking off his apron. "Come inside, you look horrible."

"Thanks," he says, looking around frantically. "Is Hyunjin here?"

"No, he just left for swimming practice. What do you need him for?" Felix leads him to the living room to sit down and talk. 

"We fought about... stuff," explains Jisung. "I want to make up."

Felix nods. "Yes, Hyunjin told me about that. He was pretty upset. He told me it was about your parents."

"Yes." Jisung's blood ran cold. "Did he tell you anything else?"

"No. Just that they got mad at you. A lot."

"Oh."

Felix smiles at him like he gets it but of course, he can't. "Hannie, do you love your parents?"

Jisung struggles with a reply but in the end, there's only one. "Yes, I do."

He's surprised it's the truth. Father leaves for work early in the morning and returns late at night. Mother parties too often and smokes too much. But he remembers when his mom used to hold him close and tell him he was her baby. He thinks his dad was proud of him when it counted. 

"Even when they do things that make you sad?"

"Always," Jisung whispers. There's a charm about Felix, a charm about all of them, really, that makes Jisung feel so safe and comforted. "They're my parents."

"I love my parents too. But right now, I don't think they love me back," Felix says, sipping on some tea left on the coffee table. 

Jisung is confused but doesn't reply. 

“I was kicked out of my house when I was sixteen,” Felix shares like his life is one big movie, “I had been dating Chan for a few weeks and it was the first time we were going on an actual date. We lived in a hard part of Australia and someone saw us holding hands.” If Felix noticed how Jisung flinched, he did not care to tell. “They told someone and that someone told someone and soon everyone in our town knew about how we liked each other and especially how we liked boys. And eventually, my parents found out. They raised me but they couldn’t get it.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I’m telling you this,” Felix says, “because I know what it feels like to love your parents so much but they can’t find it in themselves to love you back how you deserve. It’s unfair and it’s the most heartbreaking thing in the world but it’s not the end. I found a life, a family, in Chan even with my parents' disapproval. I love him and that love keeps me alive today. I don’t need my parents’ love to know what it is. It’s everywhere and I found it in Chan.”

Jisung's hands clench. Why are his parents stuck stripping themselves bare with the bruises they leave on each other's skin and the tears that soak each other's scars? Why can the Bang-Lee's mottle their necks with kisses while the Han's have nothing but the chafing imprint of a ripped off necklace given several years ago.

"How can you say things like that? I don't—" Jisung focuses on the floral pattern of their carpet. "I can't—"

Felix's bottom lip trembles and Jisung remembers that he thought Hyunjin's father was the most beautiful person he has ever seen. His vulnerable face smooths out into an expression that seems as though it was wrung out too many times. Like he had taken out his emotions and squeezed them over and over again until they could not be seen. Felix looks tired. "I don't know what I can say to you. I'm sorry you can't trust me. It's not your fault. It never is. But let me at least tell you this: I can't change who I am the same way we can't help who we are born to. I love my husband, I love my son, and although you may not believe me, I've come to love you too."

He doesn't understand. He doesn't get it. 

"I can't be near you. My parents could see me," Jisung says quickly. He hears the whir of the cars speeding down the street. One of the could carry his father, his mother, their ghosts. 

Felix stands, concerned. "Are you okay? Do you want some water?"

Jisung heaves harder. "No. Don't come near me. You're gay. That's—That's not right. That's not normal. Leave me alone."

"Hannie, you need to calm down." _Don't call me that. You don't get to call me that._ "Want me to put Hyunjin on the phone?"

"No," he murmurs, standing up harshly. "I need to leave. I have to go."

Jisung thinks Felix is a gorgeous tragedy, an Icarus sort of beauty—pretty, so pretty until you get too close and in a flash of light, you're free-falling through the sky because you should never have been entranced. Actions have consequences. Jisung recalls the darkness of the basement. The screaming. 

"You are always welcome here, Hannie. I can't wait to hear your music again."

Stop. 

_Stop._

"Looking at you disgusts me."

Jisung runs out of the house. He can't bear to witness as Felix's love contorts into revulsion. When he enters his house, empty and lacking the scent of pork galbi on a Sunday night, he bows his head in the middle of the foyer and weeps. 

.

.

.

Jisung wakes up later that afternoon with a square shadow covering a pile of books. He traces the shadow to its source—a paper taped onto his window. He pushes himself up off the bed and reads the note.

It says: HERE ARE SOME PICK-ME-UP PASTRIES JUST FOR YOU :D IT’S OKAY TO COME OVER, EVEN IF IT’S AT 2 AM!

The handwriting is too blocky to be anyone else but Hyunjin's father. Jisung bends down to pick up the pastries placed on his windowsill. The aroma reeks of Chan's baking.

He's struck with the sudden realization that the Bang-Lee's knew quite a lot. They knew about his night time visits. They knew about his summer situation. They knew about his parents, even if they were only given a glimpse. They knew and they still kept him.

Jisung takes a bite of a muffin. It's sweet. 

.

.

.

Monday settles in quietly without a sound. It's anticlimactic considering the turmoil that swayed the weekend. Hyunjin does not spare a breath to Jisung, the words too raw for a discussion, but it's an expectation Jisung can't be disappointed about. The wounds are fresh and they're still bleeding. 

The group of friends, in a state of bewilderment, split reluctantly between the two of them. Minho and Seungmin remain by Hyunjin's side and the one person Jisung least expected to stick by him, does—Changbin "Lewis" Seo, who pushes Jisung down the slide and insists on being pushed.

The bell rings and it's lunchtime. Jisung watches as Hyunjin shoves through the crowd to take his frustration out with basketball. He's seen highlights from earlier today and had winced when Hyunjin's pass to Minho was more of an attack than a toss. 

"Mooning over him won't get him to forgive you, you know," Changbin chirps.

"Shut up," snaps Jisung, getting up to head outside. 

Changbin trails closely behind. "Is that something you should say to your only friend right now?"

"You don't have to be here. If you are just here to pity me, I don't need it. I know you like me the least out of all our friends."

Changbin pauses, jogging to be side by side with Jisung. "I don't know what funky things are going through your head, but that's not true. I like talking to you. You're quiet but you really listen to me even if you say you don't care."

"I don't most of the time."

"Su-ure. I know it was you who gave me the Munchlax plush toy after I said one time last year that it was my favorite Pokemon. Thanks, by the way. I named it Gyu."

"No problem," mutters Jisung, turning his face away. 

Changbin gives him a close-lipped smile, close to wry, and then tilts his head to another hallway that leads to a separate set of stairs. "C'mon, we can talk better over there." They descend the stairs and reach a smaller, deserted apparatus designed for preschoolers. "See? More quiet."

"Are we allowed here?" 

"Not at all. But me and Seungmin come here all the time if we want to talk about something and don't want anyone else to know."

"Like what?"

"Ha-ha. Nice try, but this isn't about me. It's about you. Tell me anything. I'm yours for today." Changbin sits on of the steps of the mini-apparatus. "Or you could also not. I'm just here."

Jisung inspects the other boy, the openness of his expression and his casual lean, and finds that even though Changbin appears to be so friendly, he doesn't think there is anybody who really knows him besides Seungmin, someone who knows the in's and out's of his person. Changbin is an enigma—a cool one at that. 

The glint of Changbin's silver cross necklace catches his attention. It makes him wonder. 

"Why are you religious?"

Changbin tilts his head. "What? Is that really what you wanna talk about? Me?"

"I mean, yeah. You're... someone I don't really know. We're friends but... I-I don't really know how to explain it."

"No, I get it. You want to be closer. I do too." Changbin tugs on Jisung's hand so they're sitting next to each other. "Ask away. What do you want to know?"

"It's just... from what we've learned in school and what I've read in a book or have seen on TV, Christians aren't the nicest people even though they're supposed to be. They stole from others, tricked others, and have even lied to each other in the name of a God that... might not be real."

"Do you believe in God, Hannie?"

"Yes? No? Maybe? I mean, he may be out there or maybe he's not. I wouldn't know. I don't know a lot of things."

"That's okay," says Changbin. "But I do. I believe in God. I believe in Heaven. My parents are Christian and they took me to church all the time when I was smaller. And yeah, there are bad people, but that's not the fault of the religion. That's the fault of a person. The whole point of Christianity, of any religion really, is to be the best person you could be with the doctrine as a guide."

"Don't you think that maybe you think that because your parents made you?"

Changbin shrugs. "I don't know, but I think... no one can make you believe. You do that on your own. And if you try to force it, it'll just catch up to you in the end. They may have shown me God, but it was my choice to reach out to him."

"Let's say you didn't believe. Let's say you didn't want to be Christian, won't they get mad at you though?"

"Well, duh." Changbin laughs. "Dude, that's basically saying I wanna go to Hell, but like, even if I said that that's still a choice I made and I'll stick to it. I want to make them happy, but I don't do what I don't want to."

"And if they hate you for it?"

"Then I'll have to live with that. But I won't change myself just so they'll love me." Changbin hums. "Are your parents religious?"

"Well, not really, but..." Jisung trails off. 

Changbin finishes, "...but they're super shitty."

"Don't say that. They just... say a lot of things that... make me hurt."

"Like... calling Hyunjin's parents bad names and telling you to do it too?"

Jisung furrows his eyebrows. "I guess what I'm asking is how you're not affected by it? Being gay is a sin, isn't it? People scream about it all the time. Isn't that what they teach you in church? Why... don't you think like that? How are you friends with Hyunjin when his whole family is so—" he breathes "—wrong?"

"They're not." Changbin grabs Jisung by the shoulders, forcing him to meet his steely gaze. "Boys liking boys. Girls liking girls. None of that is wrong. Different, maybe, but not wrong. What I learned in church is that God loves everyone. It doesn't matter how old you are, your gender, your race, _who you like,_ everyone is loved by God."

"Even Hyunjin's family?"

"Yes. They're no different from you or me," says Changbin. "Who they like is just one part of them. They are also kind and they are brave and they are good even without believing. Religion is meant to bring out the best parts of you and yet there are people who use it to bring out their worst. But what matters more in the end? Who a person is or how they act?"

Jisung remembers how soft the muffin tasted. He remembers the music sheets crumpled under his bed. And he thinks maybe—just maybe—his parents are the ones who are wrong. "They're too nice to me. And I've been so mean to them. But... but even when I know it's not their fault and I know they're so nice and they love me so much, I still can't accept it. Every time I think about it, I cringe and I _know_ I shouldn't." He shakes his head. "I think I'm a bad person."

"There's no such thing as a bad person. There are only choices and what you do with them. You've followed you're mom and dad for so long you don't know any other path. This is the time you can make your own. I can't expect you to understand them now, but I think as long as you try to, God can forgive you."

Jisung smiles, surging forward to hug Changbin tightly before letting go. "When'd you get so wise?"

"You hear a lot of things when your dad's a psychologist."

"That makes sense."

"By the way, don't make Hyunjin wait too long. He's annoying when he moons over you too."

Jisung doesn’t believe his parents will ever accept him, but that does not mean he is incapable of finding redemption. "Thanks, Changbin. You really are a great friend."

"Can you say it again? I want to get that on tape. You never know how many years it'll be before I hear this again."

"You ruined it." 

Jisung swats at his arm and Changbin snickers. He turns to leave when the bell rings but the other tugs at his sleeve. 

Changbin whispers in his ear. "Hey. For what it's worth, I think you are an amazing, wonderful, _good_ person."

.

.

.

Jisung knocks on the door to the Bang-Lee residence and waits patiently. He hears Chan yell that he's coming and he does. Chan is ruffled and messy and shocked when he opens the door. "Hannie? What are you doing here?"

"May I come in?"

"Of course." Chan steps aside and Jisung walks in. 

In the dining room, Felix has his hair pushed back by a headband, halfway through his spaghetti. Hyunjin mirrors him on the other side of the table. 

Hyunjin raises his head and almost spits out his noodles. "Hannie?"

Jisung smiles shyly and takes a deep breath. He bows, ninety degrees. "I apologize for my behavior."

Felix startles to his feet. "What?"

Jisung falls to his knees, touching his forehead to the ground, prostrating. "I am so sorry for my actions." He raises his head to look Felix and Hyunjin in the eyes. He makes an attempt to look at Chan when he joins them in the dining room. "I'm so sorry for how I called you mean slurs and talked badly of you. I did that because that what my parents taught me but I'm not my parents it's not an excuse. I was unfair and that's my fault. I shouldn't have said what I said. I regret it."

Felix crouches and tries to lift him. Jisung refuses. 

"I'm sorry. There's no excuse. I'm sorry."

Hyunjin hops off his chair and helps his dad lift him. Jisung remains in a semi-bow. "What's going on, Hannie? What happened?"

Jisung addresses them all but looks to Felix the most. "I can't forget what my parents told me, what they still tell me now. It'll be in my head for a long time. I'm—I'm shaking because of it, but you were right, completely. We can't get the love we deserve but that doesn't mean we don't deserve it. I get it now. I do. You guys love each other and I'm trying to learn it's okay because it is and I'm going to try to love you back with everything I got because I do." He looks to Hyunjin as he says this. "I'm not going to be afraid anymore. I can't be what they want, so I'll just try to be the person I want. And I want this. I get it." He holds onto Hyunjin's hand and squeezes. "I get it."

The Bang-Lee's all look to each other and then they look at Jisung. Felix is the first crumble, nose scrunching and cheeks wet. It makes his freckles glitter like gold. He hugs Jisung tightly and he can smell the spices clinging to his shirt and the cologne. "It's not your fault, baby. There's nothing to forgive."

Jisung shakes his head. "No, it doesn't matter. I shouldn't have said that to you. You're pretty. The prettiest and I'm sorry I said things to make you feel bad."

"You're so sweet, Hannie, just like your name," says Felix. "Join us for dinner?"

"A-Are you sure?" Jisung directs this question to Hyunjin whose hand he still holds loosely in his. 

Hyunjin's lip quirks and he squeezes Jisung back. "Papa always makes extra. I'm sure there's room for one more."

.

.

.

Jisung is curled up in Hyunjin’s bed, memorizing Hyunjin’s face under the gleam of the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. Hyunjin gazes back at him in a similar fashion, taking the more physical approach of running his fingers down the slope of Jisung’s nose and into the ends of his lips and chin. They're not exploring each other, they are refamiliarizing themselves with the cartography of each other’s landscape, retracing their favorite districts.

“Do you really accept us?” Hyunjin asks, scared for the answer. His fingers ghost the ravine of his neck.

“I’m not going to change overnight,” Jisung admits, “but this is a good step, and I'll take the million yet to come.”

“Why?”

“Because of love.”

  
  


* * *

_The first step toward change is awareness. The second step is acceptance._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so mad at this website and my internet. This was supposed to go up ages ago but while I was writing the page kept freezing and erasing all my work. I got so frustrated and refused to write for a few days. Well, at least you get it now. 
> 
> That being said, this was a very difficult chapter to write. What I want to say and how I want to portray it is so difficult to translate from my mind to words. It's not the best and I don't think I'll ever do it justice, but Jisung needed this chapter so it was written. 
> 
> The age order is still the same. Hyunjin's birthday is in November while Seungsung's birthdays are in December. Minho's has been moved to earlier in the year, not that it's relevant, but now you know.


	10. fifth grade: act one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Straight!Changbin

The crispy bite of the northern zephyr nips at the exposed column of Jisung's neck, whipping at his ankles as he trudged up a gravelly ramp leading to a familiar door wrapped in ostentatious orange wrapping. A snow-white baseball cap pushes low on his head. He hasn't visited this room in months. He hasn't seen the man inside the room for longer. He regards the tackily decorated door with nervousness. 

With a heavy chest, he knocks. The door does not open for a full minute but the muffled rustling of papers and the clanging of a chair scraping against the tiled floor indicate that someone's approaching. 

The door opens and a plump woman looms over him. He smells the peppermint before he sees it. The unknown lady blinks down at his bundled-up body. "Oh! You must be Jisung! Hello!"

Jisung doesn't respond. Rather, he struggles with how to respond. The lady's snug turtleneck sweater reveals the D-shaped curve of her stomach, and Jisung feels like the air inside his stomach has clawed itself out to high-five the Autumn breeze. 

"You're not Mr. Kim! You're a random fat lady!" he wails. 

The woman stands stunned, slightly offended, before she bursts with laughter. It's not the cherubic twinkle of church bells like the sweet giggle of his Kindergarten teacher but a deep, scratchy bellow that came from the gut. A laugh originating from the soul. 

A taller, broader shadow covers them both. Mr. Kim—the real one—glowers at him with an expression akin to a poked bear. "Jisung Han! Apologize to my wife right now!"

"W-Wife!"

"Yes, my wife. And she's not fat, she's pregnant."

"What—Preg—huh?" Jisung's brain rusts, the gears grinding to a sharp halt. The breeze bites at his neck again and he wonders if the cold yields detrimental cerebral repercussions. 

Mrs. Kim snorts and places a hand on her husband's arm. "Oh, let him be. Come inside, it's cold." 

Jisung walks inside the classroom, dazed and confused. The wind sprints inside the classroom, sweeping a collection of papers off the top of a substantial stack. He retrieves the fallen documents, most of them littered in poor handwriting, sloppy and uneven.

After he organizes the stack, he surveys the room. It changed, but not by much. Paper pumpkins dangle from the ceiling from frayed pieces of yarn and the bookshelf has been relocating to the other side of the room. But it's still the color of Spring. It still smells like wooden popsicle sticks mixed with dried paint. 

Mr. Kim holds onto his wife as she waddles to a chair. Jisung watches them in awe. "Since when did this happen? I thought you were a single pringle!"

Mr. Kim, although mad previously, ruffles his hair with affection. "C'mon. I know we haven't seen each other for a long time, but you really haven't noticed the ring? Or the framed picture of my wife?"

Now that he takes the time to look, Jisung sees two picture frames on Mr. Kim's desk. One holds a square picture of his teacher kissing the cheek of the lady before him and the other is empty as though waiting for a partner to have and to hold. A wave of guilt splashes against his heart. Had he really been so blind as to be so utterly inept in recognizing the details of his friend's life? 

Mr. Kim gives him a reassuring smile. "I'm glad to see you, Hannie. I don't get a lot of visitors. What do you need?"

Jisung's hand reaches up to tug his cap down to cover the tops of his eyes. A shade of crimson peppers his cheeks. "Nothing, I just wanted to see you."

"That's precious," coos Mrs. Kim. "You fit your name like a tee, Honey."

Jisung wonders if he should correct her, but decides against it. "You're fat," he repeats adamantly. "Why?"

"What did I just tell you?" Mr. Kim scolds. "She's not fat."

Mrs. Kim laughs again and places a hand on her stomach. "Oh, I am fat. There's just a reason for it now. I'm expecting. Six months along, actually."

Jisung marvels, shuffling closer to prod at her belly. "Is it a boy? A girl? Are you sure it's a baby? Maybe you ate a lot of ham and it never went away."

A terrible fascination manifests. A child growing inside of a woman, allowing it to hurt her and make her bigger—it's a process so baffling, he fails to see why people willingly subject themselves to such a task. Examining his own experiences, this unbridled joy is a foreign emotion to him. He was an accident and his mother made sure he never forget. He stops that train of thought. He has to remind himself that his family isn't the exact pinnacle of a healthy middle-class ideal. 

As Hyunjin would say, "Your parents are whack!"

Mrs. Kim rubs her stomach. "Well, I'm pretty sure it's human otherwise my husband would have a lot of explaining to do. As for the gender, this peanut's going to grow up to be a he-nut!"

"A what."

Mr. Kim pats him on the shoulder. "It's a boy."

His wife pushes her sliding chair backward and picks up her purse. She sifts through her items before pulling out a monochromatic photograph and handing it to him. "This is my ultrasound picture. It's where they take an X-ray of the baby in my stomach. Look, you can see the outline of his chili pepper." She points at a circular shape in the center. "Isn't he adorable?"

Adorable isn't the precise word he'd use—squinting at the white-gray blob that somewhat resembled spilled salsa—but there aren't many things he finds adorable excluding small animals, Japanese plush toys, and his friends. 

"Er, yes," says Jisung. "Did you guys want a boy?"

Mr. Kim shrugs. "We try not to worry ourselves with want. It's bad luck to prefer a gender, so it's better not to. As long as the baby is healthy, that's all that matters. Though even if he isn't, I'll love him the same and more." His eyes are drawn with wrinkles. He looks older, more tired, happier. 

Jisung thinks of the Mr. Kim who scolded him and Hyunjin for gluing papers in Jennie's hair, thick eyebrows drawn together sternly. He thinks of the Mr. Kim who frowned at his low test score but always told him to do better, accompanied by an iron fist and tutoring lessons. He dreams of a father, strict but kind, who'd scold his son but kiss him goodbye at the bus stop as a father would.

Is that the kind of father he'd be?

Jisung meets this question with a sense of longing. He glances at the woman he has only met today. This baby, strangely, seems to make Mrs. Kim glow. She's an impressionist painting revived: the splash of sunlight dripping down the lilac sky, the dew clinging to viridian leaves—it's her. She's a woman in love, a mother, and a stray thought betrays him. 

What if she was mine?

His mind conjures up a picturesque snapshot of Incheon.

He was three years old with a spike of hair that barely scraped the bottom of a stool. He was strapped down in the backseat of a beat-up white Hyundai, speckled with dirt and graying with the passing seasons, amidst the heat of June, and Mother was driving him to daycare. She was antsy, more so than she is now, and she used one trembling hand to dig into her pocket to take out a cigarette pack and a matching white lighter, IAY scrawled on the side of it.

“Cover your face,” Mother warned him once, rolling the window down and letting the cigarette burn.

He remembers burying his nose into one of her forgotten hoodies as the smoke wandered behind, bleeding through the fabric and choking him, breathing but not enough. He remembers thinking that was love.

It’s not, he realizes now. But would the Kim's love him differently?

Jisung snaps out his delusion. He refuses to amuse himself further than this. "Does he have a name yet? he asks. It's safer than admitting the desire of being a somewhat. 

"Jeongin, but his American name would be Robert." Mrs. Kim smiles sheepishly. "Okay, I'm a little ashamed to admit I named him that so I could call him Bob."

Jisung grins. "I think it's cool."

Jeongin Kim. Yeah, that has a ring to it. 

.

.

.

Mrs. Kim goes home after fussing over 'Honey' for a while. Her manicured fingers wiggle a goodbye and he becomes more relaxed with her leave. While he liked speaking to the new lady, Jisung misses his and Mr. Kim's quiet, sometimes not-so-quiet, sessions where he could speak Korean over ungraded papers with the smartest person he knew. 

He corrects a spelling test with harsh assessment, satisfied with the fatly drawn 2/15 scribbled on top. 

"So, what have you been up to lately," says Mr. Kim, paperclipping a finished set of forms. "Still the same busybody?"

"Mhm. I picked up a hobby," Jisung answers honestly. When Mr. Kim's ears perk in interest he is almost too flustered to continue. 

"Really?"

"Yeah... I really like music. I learned how to play guitar and I'm taking more lessons now," he says, rising in volume, "I was hanging out with my friends over the summer and there was this music store with AC. We went in and the owner said she'd teach me how to play at a discount."

Mr. Kim hums. "She's generous. That's rare."

"She's so cool! Really! She's old but she's done so much stuff like go on tour with bands. She even went to Poland. I didn't even know Poland actually existed. I thought it was like _Narnia."_

"Who says Narnia's not real? They could be."

"Yeah, and Batman can fly."

"He can fly. Everyone can. We have planes."

Jisung rolls his eyes. "Anyways, I know a ton of songs." He grins smugly. "My teacher told me that most kids don't reach my level of inter-int-interpretation until year four and I'm only in year two." His cheeks flush under the prideful gaze of Mr. Kim. He thrives on the addictive quality of compliments. "I go there every summer. I'm the fastest student she's ever had. I'm taking vocal lessons too now."

"Didn't see it, didn't happen," Mr. Kim quips. 

Jisung huffs and digs out his phone. He punches a few numbers, scanning for one special video. Then, launching his body over the wooden desk, he shoves his phone toward his teacher with a smile so wide it cracked his face in two. The screen shows a short video of Jisung strumming a guitar, singing a soft Korean song. A concourse of hoots and whistles are thrown at him from a peripheral view. 

"This is me at Lino's birthday party. He wanted me to sing anime songs, but I didn't know any so I just sang a Korean one. It was pretty easy," he comments confidently. 

Mr. Kim absorbs the video with steady diligence, making noises of approval. He looks up with an incredulous smile, the type of smile he uses when he is blown out of the water. "This is really good. Amazing, even. You're really talented, Hannie."

"You think so?"

"Yeah, you could be the new Jimi Hendrix."

"I don't know who that is."

"I figured."

Jisung tugs his hat down again, heart quickening as he shoves his hand into his pocket to get what he was there for in the first place. His fingers smooth over a sleek paper surface. "Um... actually, I did have something I wanna talk to you about." He hands the invitation to him. "I—uh—I'm going to be in a talent show. It's an organized event with all the music stores and the students are gonna—um—play and show off. It's at the Alex Theatre." His cheeks redden further. "B-But you might have your baby then, so you don't have to come—"

"I'll come. The baby will need fresh air after he's born anyways," says Mr. Kim without hesitation. 

"Really? The baby too?" says Jisung, wide-eyed. "That's cool. That's great."

"Who else is coming?"

"Jinnie and his family, a few of my friends. It shouldn't be crowded." He adds as an afterthought. "They won't touch your baby if you don't want them to." He pauses. "On second thought, maybe you shouldn't come. Lino has sticky fingers."

Mr. Kim chuckles. "We're coming."

Jisung threads his fingers together. "That's nice. That's cool." His body feels like it's floating above the clouds, hanging by the hooks of his happiness.

Mr. Kim grabs another stack of papers and dumps it in front of them. "Now, let's grade the rest of these test. They're not going to do it themselves."

.

.

.

Jisung is helping Chan wash the dishes. He has to use a stool to reach the sink.

"How'd you get Jinnie?" he asks suddenly. "I didn't know men could get pregnant."

Chan almost drops the plate he is holding, recovering quickly. "Oh, baby, we didn't make Hyunjin. We bought him off the orphan store."

"Oh, okay." Jisung blinks. "Wait, what?"

.

.

.

The greatest affair concerning a fifth-grader is maturity, or rather the illusion of maturity. 

It's the middle of November when winter frosts over Los Angeles with a veil of fog. It doesn't snow in southern California, it pours.

Jisung thinks the closest they've ever had to a snow day was last year when hail catapulted against roofs and car hoods like a million tiny ice boulders seeking to wither down on metal fortresses. Hyunjin had gone outside and collected a handful in hopes of building a snowman, only to be sorely disappointed when the frigid spheres were impenetrable to sticks and leaves. So, Hyunjin and Jisung ended up drawing penises on the hail in sharpie, throwing them over the fence into Old Man Mendez's yard. 

Needless to say, he and Hyunjin were banned from seeing each other for a few days after Chan picked up a very angry phone call. 

If they weren't mature last year, they are without a doubt absolute children now. 

Another aspect of the California winter season Jisung likes is the mild chill that stops short of the hypothermia-inducing climates of the northern states like Minnesota. Windows fog up enough that cute pictures can be doodled on the glass before being gradually erased by the weather. 

However, as young boys are, it is never that innocent. 

"Hey, Lewis, I have a surprise for you," says Minho, hands covering his section of the classroom window. 

Changbin, finishing his poorly illustrated _Doraemon,_ looks up briefly. His face is unamused as Minho breaks out in high-pitched giggles. "Haha. Very funny."

The older had uncovered his hands to reveal 'UR MOM'S A HO' in as terrible font as his actual handwriting. 

Hyunjin snickers. "It's okay, Binnie, here's something better." He directs Changbin's attention to his own doodle of a butt with an arrow pointing at it saying 'THAT'S YOU.'

"My mom told me to never curse unless I have to, so I can say this: fuck you guys!"

"Well, your mom's a ho," says Minho before ducking to avoid Changbin's ready fist. 

Seungmin and Jisung weren't paying too much attention to the argument above them as they were preoccupied with assembling their 100-piece puzzle that was supposed to create the face of Mickey Mouse. 

They were almost complete when Minho laughs too hard and collapses onto their puzzle, shattering it. Jisung rises with a squawk while Seungmin punches his friend in the stomach. Minho keels, but continues guffawing even when the entire group starts smacking him silly—Hyunjin joining in fo the fun rather than any real sense of annoyance. 

"Is this what they call betrayal?" wheezes Minho when Hyunjin starts pinching his ears.

A scream tears through their banter. 

They swivel around and see a wave of classmates fanning out away from the board like a herd of bison after being startled. One boy even slides his body over a desk to get away. 

Jisung peers over Minho's body to find a quivering girl huddled in the center of the _Disney-_themed carpet, ruffled cinnamon braids covering burning cheeks. He'd recognize that lurid hair color anywhere. Seung-wan "Wendy" Son grips at her polka-dotted tights, poised to cry. 

"What the!" Seungmin exclaims before rushing to see the commotion. 

Jisung follows his friends and gasps at the sight. A small, oval-shaped crimson stain encapsulates the smiling face of _The Little Mermaid,_ equivalating her more to _The Grudge._ Wendy stands above it and when she turns to huddle closer to the teacher, they see a matching stain trailing to her bum.

Blood is everywhere. 

"Oh my gosh, I think Wendy's gonna die," whispers Hyunjin, lips crushed against Jisung's ear. 

"She's not gonna die," Jisung says nervously, more out of reassurance for himself. He holds Hyunjin's hand as Ms. Liu tries to calm the class. 

It takes a couple of bouts of yelling, but eventually the students quiet. “Wendy’s going to go to the nurse’s office. She’ll be fine, though,” she says, but it does nothing to quell the gossipy murmurs.

A woman knocks on the door. She's not wearing her green vest but Jisung recognizes her as one of the playground supervisors. She has to hold onto Wendy's arm to steady her, he notices, because the girl is hunched over in pain, arms clutching her stomach and turning white. A duo of men arrive a few minutes later to roll up the carpet and the day continues as normal, but not as normal as it should be. 

Although Wendy is away, the impact is made: everyone wants to talk about the blood leaking from her pee-pee area. 

.

.

.

The discussion seeps into the weekend. It's all his friends want to discuss. 

"She's giving birth," Minho says excitedly over Skype. His nose takes up the whole screen. 

"You all are idiots," says Changbin. "It's time for her semicolon."

Seungmin interjects, "I think it called a period."

"That's a ridiculous name."

"Better than semicolon"

"Do you think she's sick? Is it contagious?" questions Hyunjin. Jisung sits beside him, nibbling on a _Cheeto,_ only half of his face visible. 

Minho yelps. "Oh man. What if blood starts coming out of out—"

"Stop it!" barks Seungmin. "I'm pretty sure the only ones dying around here are the girls."

"Guys," says Jisung with exasperation. "Wendy's not dying."

.

.

.

Monday emerges quicker than Jisung is prepared. 

When he woke up, his body was upside down and bent, causing him to have an aching neck. When he rummaged the fridge for milk, the milk was expired a day earlier than labeled. When he went to school, the bell rang right when he realized he left his homework on his desk—the homework he pulled an all-nighter to complete.

He's not one to believe in superstitions but this is ridiculous. 

Hyunjin rubs his back and Jisung leans into his touch. "Today is just not your day," says Hyunjin, digging his thumb into Jisung's shoulder blade. "Next thing you know, you'll be getting food poisoning for the milk you didn't even drink."

"Please don't jinx me. That could very well happen."

Ms. Liu let them into the classroom but she had left soon after, instructing the kids to stay put and not wander. As kids do, they started moving as soon as she left.

Wendy, obviously, was an immediate tourist attraction. Several girls and boys crowded around her in protuberant clouds. Their mouths were off like a rocket, machine guns on rapid-fire: Are you okay? Does it hurt? Is it still there? Wendy looked like she was about to explode with the swelling redness filling her cheeks and flowing into her ears. 

Jisung and his friends would have been a leg of that monstrosity if not for Jisung's somber attitude taking precedence over Wendy's lady problems. Changbin places rainbow gummy bears on the desk beside Jisung, forming a heart.

Seungmin cards his fingers through Jisung's hair while cooing softly. "I'm sure this'll pass," he says. "There's this Korean proverb: _a bean grows where you plant a bean and a red bean grows where you plant a red bean."_

Jisung frowns. "That means, 'You reap what you sow.'"

"What!" Hyunjin exclaims, pausing in his ministrations. Jisung whines at the loss. "My papa tells me that all the time when I make mistakes! I thought he was comforting me!"

Minho plays the knife game with Jisung's fingers and the eraser end of a pencil. "No one cares about your daddy issues, Sammy. Hannie's got food poisoning."

"That's not what happened!"

Changbin pumps his fists. "My gummy tower is done!"

Minho flicks the bottom gummy bear and pops the remains into his mouth. Before Changbin could protest, the monstrosity on the other side of the classroom bubbles again. 

"Does your vagina still hurt?" they overhear being asked. 

Jisung sees Wendy grip the fabric of a pouch on her backpack. Glimpses of white poke out from the openings. Their group draws into each other, zoning out Wendy’s reply in favor of their own line of questioning.

Changbin pulls on the collar of his T-shirt. “My older sister told me it’s time for ‘The Talk.’”

"What's 'The Talk?'" asks Hyunjin. 

"The Puberty Talk. They separate the boys and girls and talk about our bodies. About how we're gonna be growing longer and hairier and getting pimples. All that embarrassing crud that makes it hard to look at the dude teachers for months."

Seungmin shudders. "Sounds horrible."

"Imagine looking Mr. Smith in the eye after he teaches us about our penises? Whack."

Jisung turns his attention to Hyunjin who is completely still. Rather than joining in the playful noises of disgust, the tallest of their little boy band looks contemplative, if a bit fascinated by the whole process. It worries him.

At long last, the resonating click-clack of Ms. Liu’s heels echo throughout the hallway. They scramble to their seats. Their teacher sticks her head inside and smiles at their manufactured obedience. She beckons with her finger. "Come outside, it’s time to talk about what happened on Friday.”

The class twitters nervously as they filter into the hallway. A tall, dark-skinned man in a crisp button-up wrapped accompanied by an octopus tie greets them as they walk out. It's the next-door teacher who instructs the other fifth grade, Mr. Smith. He has a booming voice but doesn't yell at his students. He's the sort of adult who's quieter when he's mad. He uses this voice to shout over the commotion. "Boys, come with me! Girls, follow Ms. Liu into the auditorium!"

Jisung spares one last glance at Wendy before Hyunjin tugs him along with the crowd funneling into Mr. Smith's room. The room mimics their own all the way down to the desk arrangement. Opened pencil boxes fleck the tabletops. However, there is one change—a screen is pulled down, the male teachers fiddling with the projector.

His friends find seats next to each other except for Changbin who forces Seungmin to share. 

"I told you guys it was the period," says Changbin. 

"Shut up," replies Seungmin. 

"Yeah, be quiet." Minho shushes him. "We're about to be men in a few minutes."

Jisung frowns. "It's just a video."

"My dad told me that a boy becomes a man when he cuts his banana."

"Excuse me, he cuts his what?" says Seungmin with a raised eyebrow.

Hyunjin pinks. "You know. His banana."

"Actually, I don't know. Please explain it."

"His pee-pee!" Hyunjin yells a little too loudly, drawing amused stares. They snicker at his demise. He grumbles, "You guys are pee-pee."

Jisung laughs. "How can you draw penises on everything but can't say the word? Let me list your names: Little leg. Junior. Satan's special branch. Oliver Wood."

"Stop exposing me."

"SO YOU’RE GROWING HAIR DOWN THERE,” the man on the screen starts off, interrupting the group. “THAT’S PUBERTY.”

"What the fuck," whispers Changbin. 

Jisung puts on a tough face, but even he can’t hold in his reluctant laughter when the man starts preaching about privates and maintaining body odor. He spends more time burying his face into Hyunjin's neck than learning about the various intricacies about voice cracks.

When the movie ends, Jisung lifts his face off Hyunjin’s shoulder to crack a few jokes, but he stops short. Hyunjin’s eyes are glazed with a fascination. The stars inside twinkle in the wrong light. The tilt in his lips is misplaced. Mr. Smith’s post-rant buzzes in Jisung’s ear, becoming white noise. His focus zones in on Hyunjin who straightens his posture, puffs out his chest, and untucks his T-shirt. He turns around and finds the rest of the group following the same procedure.

Jisung shrugs and fiddles with the gifted deodorant. He doesn't care much, but maybe he should.

He didn’t realize the farce of growing up until they reunited with the girls in their class. Hyunjin darts toward a clump and the girls blush and giggle at his intrusive questions about their lecture. It was like they were christened anew. Yesterday, they turned a cheek at Hyunjin for walking near them while he was sweaty after a game. Now, they cover their mouths and tease. 

Jisung is bothered and he doesn't know why. 

It is right then he sees Joanne Shin, the girl who picked at earthworms and dumped them down Seungmin's shirt, laugh as she playfully nudges Hyunjin. Jisung feels a shift in the atmosphere. There's a subtle tension pervading the room and he knows the exact moment his day went from bad to worse. 

Water droplets cease pelting their neighborhood by the time the bell rings, but the rawness of the afternoon sink it's ice-cold claws into the weather. Jisung wraps his scarf three times around his neck and waits for Hyunjin to pack up. 

Joanne lingers by his best friend's desk, prolonging their joint departure. 

Jisung scrunches his nose. 

Hyunjin and his stupid starry smile acknowledge Jisung with a stupid half-hearted nod. He raises his hand, says, "Head on without me," and continues talking with the stupid girl. 

It’s a natural reaction to hate puberty. The reasons, though, may vary. He hates how it morphs a person into someone so grotesquely different. It’s not as if he’s opposed to change; change is the mechanism by which society progresses and humanity develops. But, he’s against the idea that one day can alter a character so profoundly. He hates how it makes the class so wary of each other that he can’t look a female in the eyes without Hyunjin being suggestive. Most of all, he detests how Hyunjin doesn’t mind.

Joanne laughs again and Jisung hates it.

.

.

.

"Can you believe California is back on its bullshit," says Hyunjin, stripping his shirt off.

The spell of rain that had graced the sunny state vanished as quickly as it had come and in its absence, a brutal heat terrorizes the citizens of Los Angeles once more. Winter had come and gone but spring arrived to upset the balance. 

Minho, adorning a sweaty tank top and basketball shorts short enough to qualify as boxers, throws an apple slice his way. "Using big words doesn't make you any older. Who's teaching you these terrible things?"

Jisung flips the page of his manga. "Man, I wonder who."

"Trynna start a fucking fight?"

"My innocent Christian ears!" screeches Changbin, covering his head. He's the only one in their friend group unaffected by the heat. Not a drop of sweat touches his head despite the fact that he's dressed head-to-toe in black. 

Seungmin sidles beside Jisung. He reads the manga over his shoulder. 

Jisung lifts his head and asks, "Do you want some strawberries? It's your favorite fruit, right?"

"You remember?" 

Seungmin is red all over and Jisung feels bad for him. His friend has always been more weak to the heat than the others. A strawberry should keep him refreshed. 

"Yeah. I'm not that hungry anyway. Here."

"Oh—Okay."

Jisung holds his strawberry in front of Seungmin. But rather than accepting it with his hands, Seungmin leans forward and bites the whole fruit. Jisung shrugs, discarding the remains, and continuing his reading. He's glad Seungmin's grown comfortable enough to do that with him. 

Changbin's phone decides to go off, the distinct ring of _KaKaoTalk_ blasting. The boy scrambles off the bean chair to answer it. He lights up when he reads the message, his fingers tap-tapping away on his keyboard with a triangular smile rivaling the sun.

When he finishes, he faces his friends eagerly. "Guess who had a girlfriend?"

The scene explodes. 

"What the heck, who?"

"Since when?"

"How long?"

"You like girls?" Hyunjin's last comment earns him a punch on the shoulder. "It's a genuine question!"

"Yes, I like girls," Changbin asserts before breaking out into a goofy expression. "Guess who it is."

"Mina," they reply in unison.

"Mina," Changbin says dreamily. 

Changbin has been friends with Mina since forever. She's one of his few female friends that he doesn't subject to his crude jokes and playful insults. He's always nice to people but even nicer to her. Jisung would have found the sentiment cute if Changbin didn't rant about her adorable button nose, lovely cherry lips, and her oh-so kind and funny personality for hours nonstop. 

"How'd you ask her out?" implores Seungmin. 

"I'll show you!"

Changbin turns his phone toward them so they can read the conversation. 

**LoveBug<3**

**Hey, I heard from my friends that u like me**

**Pizza**

**I do**

**LoveBug<3**

**I like u too :D**

**Pizza**

**Really!!! :DDD**

**LoveBug<3**

**Really!!! **

**(´ ω `♡)**

**Pizza**

**????So r we dating**

**LoveBug<3**

**ofc **

**(*˘︶˘*).｡.:*♡**

**Pizza**

**ily**

**(´ ε ` )♡**

**LoveBug<3**

**ily2**

**(´ ε ` )♡**

“Love story of the century.” Hyunjin snickers.

"Don't be jealous because you don't have your own lady love to hold." Changbin gasps when Hyunjin blushes. Jisung's heart drops. "You do! You dog! Who you texting?"

"Nobody!"

"Give me your phone!"

Hyunjin shoves it up his shirt. "No!"

"Maybe you should listen to him," says Jisung, stomach hurting for some reason. "I don't think Hyunjin pays attention to girls beyond whether they can play ball."

"True that," Minho cheers. "I don't get the big deal about boyfriends and girlfriends. We're eleven. What's the rush?"

Jisung forgot how much he loves Minho. 

“Oh shush, don’t tell me it’s never passed through your head. Don’t you like anyone?” Changbin asks.

“Do anime characters count?” Minho inquires absent-mindedly.

“Boring.” Changbin turns on his side. “What about you, Minnie? Any girl you like?”

Again, Seungmin turns red, hands picking at the bottom of his shirt. “N-No.”

A groan. "You guys suck."

Jisung throws an apple slice at Changbin. "Finish your food, lover boy."

Hyunjin’s phone buzzes and no one notices except him and Hyunjin. He sees Joanne's name flash on the screen, but Hyunjin turns, obscuring his view. His best friend smiles at the message, quickly unlocking his phone to text back, and Jisung scolds himself for being nosy. 

.

.

.

A bright orange basketball swirls around the ring before tilting inward. Jisung and his friends win by a narrow lead of three and the huddle of girls on the benches nearby cheers.

As the year progressed, their little ragtag team of losers has been receiving more attention from the girls in their class. While last year the number of females in their vicinity was limited to the ones who played sports, nowadays it seemed like the amount present has doubled.

Hyunjin pumps his fist and high-fives Jisung, following with a fist bump and a complicated finger wave. Their secret handshake is in the works, but developing quickly.

Changbin blows kisses at his girlfriend, yelping when Jisung steals the ball and scores another shot, more to piss off his friend than a grab for glory. 

Nonetheless, another round of cheers sounds after he makes it. He tries not to fool himself into thinking they were actually dedicated to him. He raises his head and proves himself correct when he sees Minho wave at the crowd. Judy waves back as though the gesture was dedicated to her. 

Honestly, Minho has problems with his eyesight and he most likely only saw a vague black smudge that may or may not be Lucy. But, hey, that's none of Jisung's business. 

Hyunjin waves at the crowd too and Jisung pouts when Joanne waves back. He rolls his eyes, lifting the bottom of his shirt to wipe at his sweaty forehead. 

"Hannie," says Seungmin.

When Jisung turns, he sees Seungmin holding out a bottle of water for him. Soft pink blends the uneven spots on his cheeks. He tires easily, Jisung notes. 

"Thanks, Minnie." Jisung grabs the beverage and takes a swig. He pats Seungmin's lower back in gratitude, grimacing when he hears the girls cheer again. Hyunjin had dribbled the ball between his legs. "All he did was dribble a ball and they're going nuts."

"I don't think they care about the ball. They just think he's cute," Seungmin replies. 

"Cute." Jisung scoffs. "Sweaty and tired is cute."

Seungmin toes the concrete. "I mean... they think the same about you."

"No, they don't."

"Yeah, they do," insists Seungmin. "You have the whole quiet and shy thing about you. You're not a jerk anymore. You're cool. And you play guitar well and that makes you even cuter—cooler, I mean!"

Jisung is skeptical. "That's stupid. I was the same person last year and they didn't like me then. Or Hyunjin. It takes one video on growing up and now everyone thinks he's hot."

"You're getting so worked up about it. Why does it matter? You don't even like any of the girls."

"It doesn't matter," Jisung says quickly. "I'm not jealous. They're just... annoying." He wipes his forehead and bites his lip in frustration. "Sorry, I'm acting like a prick. I just think it's so ridiculous. You don't want to hear me babble."

"No!" objects Seungmin. "Babble all you want. I don't mind the babble. Really. I'm free to talk at any time. You have a point anyways. All these crushes and love stuff is so weird." 

Jisung thinks Seungmin is acting weird. They should hang out more so it makes more sense. "Thanks, I guess?" Minho complains that they're taking too long and he throws the water bottle to the side. "Hey, don't mention it to Jinnie, okay?"

Jisung's hand brushes against the other's as he passed. Seungmin hovers over where it lingered. 

.

.

.

“I’m home,” Jisung announces to an eerie silence.

He kicks off his shoes and takes off his beanie. A larger pair of blood-red pumps sits by the doorway.

Mother is home.

He walks to the living room and takes in the scene of human fragility. It smells like smoke and looks like a mess but it’s all become so familiar to him he doesn’t even blink as the overwhelming scent of perfume and fire sears his eyes. Mountains of ash litter the floor and tables. A rusty ashtray lays sideways on the ground as if it were thrown, sandy gray contents dusting the floor. The wall sports a matching indent.

The TV is on, an episode of _Friends_ on mute, emanating a dull light that weakly illuminated Mother’s sleeping figure. She looks terrible with her mouth open, lipstick smeared, vivacious ebony hair reduced to dry mousy strands.

He steps closer, the scent of alcohol radiating from her open party dress, and it hurts Jisung more than the burn in his lungs.

He tugs the white blanket that had fallen from the couch over her body, tucking it in so it doesn’t fall again. He hesitates, but he finds the courage to hug her too. “I’m home.”

.

.

.

That night, he hunches over the bathroom sink, scrubbing at his arms until the lingering fragrance of smoke stops sticking to his skin like a bad tattoo. The roar of an engine booms outside, and he knows it's his mother. Ignoring the sound, he scrubs harder.

* * *

_Everyone left and we have remained on a path that goes on without us._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It only took us around 30K but we finally met Jeongin. 
> 
> That being said, we are slowly nearing 50K. I feel like I should celebrate. Maybe by updating one of the other fics I've neglected (CHECK EM OUT :D) for this one. 
> 
> Woojin's wife could literally be anyone. Jisung's a drama queen, wbk.
> 
> Me: Haha Seungbin is one of my favorite ships! I love them! Lmao where the Seungbin at  
Also me: but like,,, what if—


	11. fifth grade: act two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys... It happened again! I was typing and then my computer updated on its own and erased half my work. This was supposed to be uploaded hours ago. I'm a little unhappy with this because I had to remember what I typed and it's not the same but argh, it's here.

Rose-red leaks from the far edges of the elementary school and floods into the dully shaded corridors. Candy pink streamers hang from the doors like telephone wires. On the wall of the staircase, a top-to-bottom poster of a naked cherubic boy smiles down at the students as they waddle to their classes where bright taffy-colored glitter stuck to the rusted balcony rails.

The intercoms buzz.

Jisung whines when the sultry timbre of Elvis Presley blares above his head. 

"Wise men say," the man belts for the second time that afternoon and the tenth time that week, "only fools rush in."

"But I can't help—falling in love with you!" harmonizes Ms. Liu. Her dark hair lays on her head in airy curls. The cupcake dress she wears reflects her mood. Valentine's Day is her favorite holiday and she is unabased to impose her tastes on the world.

If the school had painted itself with the colors of a flamingo, Ms. Liu quintupled the number of flamingos, sprinkled in a bucket of strawberries, and stirred the ingredients together with dashes of bubblegum to create an eye-blinding concoction tailored to provoke rhodophobia.

The glitzy cartoon heart drew on the whiteboard invites Jisung's own to cringe. He tries not to fall prey to the ill-inducing effects of the season, but Ms. Liu makes it exceedingly difficult. 

"Only a week until _Valentine's!"_ sings Ms. Liu, dusted with rouge. 

Jisung groans. His teacher has a calendar counting down to V-Day and never missed a chance to remind them of it. 

"Which means we can start our Valentine cards!"

A chorus of excited murmurs breaks out. Some immature boys make funny noises, puckering their lips. Some girls giggle sweetly, nudging their friends. 

Ms. Liu ignores both spectrums—one of the few traits he can reconcile with—and saunters to a table pushed to the back. On the table are baskets filled with construction paper spanning every possible shade _Crayola_ has to offer. A collection of _Disney-_themed mugs holding a surplus of supplies teeter precariously beside them. 

"Remember that your card doesn't have to be for someone you like. It can be for anyone! Try not to move from your assigned seats, okay? Have fun!"

A flurry of students get up and grab at the table. By the time Jisung reaches it, the pastel colors he wanted were gone. Grumbling, he snags a few pieces of white construction paper and a single black marker, not that there was anything else. 

He gazes longingly at his friends seated across the room as dictated by Ms. Liu's stupid seating chart specifically designed to inconvenience Jisung in any manner.

Changbin squawks as Hyunjin dumps black glitter over his letter to Mina, startling twin snickers out of Minho and Seungmin. 

Their laughter haunts him. 

White on white papers mock his plight and Jisung half hopes they burn under his glare. His glower softens. He should convert his bitterness into something productive like his card. On the other hand, he doesn't know who to give it to—Ms. Liu did say the cards don't have to be romantic. One thing's for sure though, he won't grant his friends physical proof of his affection. 

"Who're you giving your card to, Jinnie?"

It's Judy Lee, the newest student from Korea. Unlike him, she had no problems assimilating to American life, her accented English catapulting her popularity instead. 

Joanne Shin, eleven years old and hair a flashy pink, grins sneakily. "You know already."

"He's all you ever talk about." A pause. "I'm not sure who I'm gonna give my card to. I think Lino since he's the cutest in the class."

"I mean, I guess he's cute—in a mushroom kind of way." A giggle. Silence. "Hm, I think Breanna is gonna give him a card too. And Wendy. And Irene. And Rebekah—"

"Ugh."

"I'm sure he'll like yours the most though!"

"You're lucky you have a Valentine. You don't have to worry about that stuff."

Jisung listens no further not out of lack of interest but out of the inability to as Joanna lowers her voice to a whisper. Regardless, Jisung doubts Joanne's emotions run that deep. She doesn't know the building blocks of Hyunjin—how his favorite color is black because it reminds him of astronauts, how he loves to dance but hides it from his parents, how he loves swimming and singing and stars. 

She doesn't know a single thing about him and Jisung hates it. 

Crushes, in general, lack rationale. It's a fleeting emotion. It dissolves.

The petty infatuations of youth may pervade his class, but as an individual who prides himself on perceiving the harsh reality of young romances, he knows that such short-lived admirations aren't worth the consequences they bear. Passion is a firework, explosive, enthralling, and so, so bright. In the sparkling lights, there's glamor. In its wake, there's emptiness, a hollow imprint on the sky that makes you wish of a then.

He can't assemble every puzzle piece in his parents' story but it doesn't take a genius to deduce the lack of a happy ending. 

A beginning. A climax. A conclusion. 

Why bother wasting your time on a tragedy? He's read the definition of insanity—doing things over and over again and expecting a different result. 

Joanne is as red as Ms. Liu's rouge. He digs his marker into his card. 

.

.

.

A fractured crystalline model lays smashed upon a drawer. Shards fan out, jagged edges projecting rainbows on the shutters. It was a small item, intricate in its subtle indentations and curves, and the hazy image of a man retrieving the delicate masterpiece, running a trembling finger down its side, and weeping push to the forefront of Jisung's memory. 

"What went wrong?" he mumbled in Korean. "Why?" he'd cry. 

The model was of an orange blossom—eternal love. 

Jisung was smaller then. Brain a little less than what it is now. He'd watch as the man wrapped the figurine in silk, kiss it tenderly, and enclose it inside a wooden box. Jisung remembers a woman, beautiful but embittered, staring at the container for hours. 

Neither of them could muster the nerve to shatter the one symbol of their devotion, so how did it come to this? For as much as they despised each other, they feared to lose each other more. The Han's loved as hard as they loathed. 

Alcohol saturates the pitiful glass object. Not all the broken pieces were from the figurine. 

Mother sleeps on the couch again, collar popped open and reeking of intoxication. But at least her ritzy gown is free of burnt out cigarettes. 

"Mother," he says. His hand reaches to shake her awake but a weighty stench hits him. 

Cologne. 

Tentatively, he lifts her chin and chokes at the sight of dark marks staining married skin. 

When Jisung thinks of passion, he hears lies and the growl of an engine at midnight; he tastes whiskey down a hoarse throat and cheap cherry lip gloss; he smells women's perfume and smoke and feels the sharp sting of a slap; he sees his parents forgetting who they are—like their lips weren't shaped for the gentle syllables of a vow, like their hands weren't made for holding, like their heart which thrummed violently against their chests weren't crafted for the immature need for intimacy—like love doesn't last.

In the smudged curve of Mother's mouth, he sees his classmates, flimsy and infatuated. And for one dire, awful moment, Jisung detests human weakness.

.

.

.

Jisung buttons up her collar, dragging the waves of her hair into a waterfall concealing her mistakes. With a new reluctance, he slips an invitation for the talent show on the coffee table. He hates her—them—so much, but he is a Han and he loves as hard as he loathes. 

.

.

.

Saturday dawns on downtown L.A. and the heat isn't too bad underneath wide umbrellas striped red, white, and blue. Cars big and small putter and pollute the streets. Puddles of melted Smokey Road ice cream from _Wanderlust Creamery_ drip into the small holes of their table. 

Jisung's hand accidentally touches one of them. He yelps. "Seriously, Minho? Are you a child?"

"Yes." Minho licks a line up his cone. "We're all children actually."

"It's so hot. When's Binnie gonna be done?" complains Seungmin. 

Their recently chained friend has been stressing over what to get his girlfriend the whole week. He found that the only recourse for such a grim situation was to employ his unwilling, tired, and sweaty friends on his quest for an affordable but covetable present. 

But, it is never enough. It's either too small, too cheap, too expensive—his complaints go on and on. 

Changbin Seo, manliest man in fifth grade, reduced to a pile of desperate goo by one girl. How the mighty have fallen.

This dismal circumstance is the cause of their current predicament. Three boys sulking over melting ice cream in the heart of _Little Tokyo._

The narrowed walkways of the district which teem with people on average days, overflow with visitors during weekends. Otherwise barren shops fill up and pour out customers. Even the tawdry ramen restaurant with the shoelace noodles and rubber sushi boasts a page long waitlist. People sporting cat ears, schoolgirl outfits, and dyed hair venture underground where graphic merchandise lines the halls. 

"This is where Mina's heart is," Changbin claimed. 

"No, this is where you think Mina's home is," Minho tried to refute but the other had already gone to peruse the pastel stores. 

"Knowing Changbin, we'll be here till he gets kicked out of every store on the block," says Jisung. He reads a nearby clock. "So in a few minutes."

"Can't he just buy her a necklace from the dollar store? What's the difference?" complains Minho. 

"It wouldn't be enough for his princess," Seungmin sneers. 

"Princess Shmincess. I'm dying here."

"I'll plan your funeral," says Jisung. 

Seungmin tugs at his shirt and his attention focuses on the store Changbin just went into. He changes subjects. "You know, I get why Binnie wants to buy a present, but not Jinnie. Maybe he has a girlfriend too."

Jisung slams his Thai tea down, ice cubes crunching together. 

Seungmin flinches. 

"I'll check on them." He gets up, metal chair scraping the stone floor, stalking off. 

A distant "Watch what you say next time" is heard from Minho, but Jisung's not paying attention. 

Hyunjin. Jinnie. Sam. His neighbor. His best friend. 

The sound of his voice sings like an old lullaby. The drum of his fingers on the counter and on the rails is a familiar rhythm. Jisung is attuned to Hyunjin's music, knows him like the arches of a game controller. It may change shape, buttons, vibrations, but there is a comforting familiarity in each version. 

A girlfriend, Seungmin said. 

Flashes of Hyunjin picking up his phone and shielding it from view come to mind, images of Hyunjin and Joanne whispering to each other, pictures of him asking why Hyunjin was laughing and being brushed off because "it's nothing" or "you won't get it” like—like—

The shop's kitty bell rings throughout the store. He finds himself in a pink,pink shop where famous Japanese characters fringe the shelves in all their marshmallow-like glory. 

The entire aesthetic is his guiltiest pleasure. He'd never admit his preference for the cute and adorable, unbefitting of a boy like him, even if he was already exposed by Hyundick who found his quokka shrine and told everyone. 

Jisung puffs up. It's not his fault they melt his super tough exterior!

A worker approaches him as he glares down a tempting set of squirrel sweater. He politely refuses her help. He traipses down the aisle for a glimpse of a checkered headband, joggers, and a bright red jersey. In the far back, crouching near a shelf of school supplies, is Hyunjin. Sushi-shaped erasers are clutched in his hands. 

Hyunjin looks up at the sound of footsteps. "What are you doing here?"

"Making sure you guys aren't kicked for vandalism," replies Jisung, watching as the other dropped the erasers back in their original spots. "I'm not sure your parents like food erasers."

Hyunjin stands. "Good thing they're not who I'm shopping for."

"Who then?"

"My Valentine, duh," says Hyunjin with a toothy smile. Jisung is irritated. "They deserve only the best."

"You have a Valentine."

"Yup." He pops the 'p.'

"Who?"

Hyunjin stick his tongue out. "Nunya."

"Jinnie!" He tries to look indifferent. He fails. "I'm pretty sure it's in the Best Friend Handbook, written in law, that you have to tell me these things."

"Nope. Never heard of it."

"What about a hint?"

Hyunjin thinks. He says, "They're the cutest person I know."

"Cutest?" Jisung squawks. 

If possible, Hyunjin smiles wider. "Definitely."

Jisung pouts. The last thing Hyunjin called cute was Muk from Pokemon. He has no sense of what is or isn't cute. Cute should be reserved for things like quokkas and Pachirisu. Not pink girls who giggle obnoxiously and wear skirts and steal best friends. 

"Hannie," says Hyunjin. 

"What."

Hyunjin holds up two items: the winking quokka plush he was eyeing and a stuffed teddy bear with a scarlet ribbon around its neck. "What do you think they'll like more?"

"I don't care. Don't ask me." Jisung flushes angrily, trudging away and leaving Hyunjin in the dust. 

Stupid ugly Joanne and her stupid ugly forehead. 

Jisung passes by a promotional poster for a couples event on February 14th. 

Stupid Valentine's Day and its stupid events. 

.

.

.

Changbin sprints toward his friends, hugging a stuffed penguin and a charm necklace. "Guys! I found the perfect—woah. What's with this darkness?"

Seungmin is sulking on the table. Jisung covers his pout with a lollipop. Hyunjin prods grumpily at the holes in the table.

"That's pretty," compliments Minho. 

.

.

.

Jisung finds it riveting how a song can paint its own picture, direct its own movie. The notes tell a unique story of their own. E sends him to a sunset-kissed city in France trailing a shy waitress with a heart of gold. B guides him to the edge of a surfboard emerging from the roaring waters. Two people converge at a bakery at the press of the A string, the aroma of warm bread cushioning the fall. 

He paces through the final strums slowly, not quite prepared for the inevitable closure of the song. Inherently romantic music is boring for Jisung but Felix is owed his exceptions. 

Felix relaxes in the kitchen, playing the new Pokemon game with Hyunjin's DS, volume low to keep a sensitive ear on the music. He fills in the lyrics in his son's absence and Jisung thinks the baritone is as beautiful as the person. 

The door opens with a noisy creek and Jisung recognizes the heavy patter of Chan's footsteps approaching the kitchen. There's the grate of the chair. Felix rises and the not-so-subtle smack of a kiss follows. It doesn't bother Jisung like it used to. His stomach filling with warmth instead of nausea. 

The song ends and he starts anew with the worst song in his repertoire. Elvis Presley's dulcet tones translate well instrumentally. He laments how swimming practice prevents Hyunjin from sharing his distress.

A second scuffle is heard. 

Jisung glances over and blushes crimson. 

Chan had scooped his husband into a swirling embrace, the tips of Felix's toes scraping the ground. Felix laughs and, clutching onto Chan's shoulders, lower himself. He slides his hands forward so their fingers intertwine clumsily. Their excited twirling calms to steady swaying. 

Dimples are painted on the roundness of Chan's cheeks and Jisung thinks he's pretty too. Prettier than Psyche, more handsome than Eros. 

The couple speaks lowly and Jisung bets his music fades into the background of their story. He would gladly spend his hours drawing the notes of their life. 

Chan pecks Felix on the forehead. 

Jisung averts his eyes. 

When he thinks of the couple, he hears humming over a burning stove, the hiss of eggs cracking on a sizzling pan; he tastes cotton candy shaped like flowers and brownies shaped like joy; he smells corny men's cologne and fire that doesn't hurt and feels rough skin peppered with hero-themed bandaids; he sees Chan and Felix, Felix and Chan holding each other's hand in the car like they're still besotted teenagers learning about love for the first time.

This is who love should be reserved for, Jisung thinks. For people who understand it.

.

.

.

"Joanne? Honey?" Ms. Liu calls. "Can you please take these books to the library?"

Two tall stacks of middle-grade chapter books featuring the illustrious titles of _Junie B. Jones, Charlotte's Web,_ and the occasional _Artemis Fowl_ stand in front of the teacher. Greg Heffley's smiling face taunts the fifth graders.

"Sure," Joanne agrees.

Jisung takes one long look at his math worksheet. It is half-filled and half-wrong. They're learning how to find the area of shapes now and it's almost to the point where he can't look at a carton of milk without the urge to vomit out base and height. 

"Okay," he agrees. It's a pity the task has to be shared with Joanne Shin—hair still a vibrant strawberry pink—but he figures he can just ignore her.

They each grab a stack, skinny beanpole arms quivering with the weight, and they waddle out the door. The silence is uncomfortable. Joanne glances at him frequently, but Jisung makes a point to reject her hints. They reach as far as the computer room before the girl opens her trap.

"So," she says. Jisung rolls his eyes mentally. "You're really good at basketball."

He eyes her friendly face and open smile. He nods.

"I'm pretty good at sports, I think, but I could never play basketball. I'm not too good with my hands. Like, in soccer, I make an awesome forward, but I suck at being the goalie. One time Judy kicked the ball and I managed to block the shot—with my face," she continues on. 

He snorts. 

"Do you dance like Lino too since you guys are friends and all?" she inquires in that genuine kind of way that makes Jisung wonder why she's talking to him in the first place. "I can dance too. Don't tell him, but I think I'm a better dancer than him. It's a really fun thing, but it's super hard. My favorite music to dance to is hip-hop music. I like listening to it too. Pop's fun. Though I'm not a fan of acoustic."

Jisung's hum cuts short and he turns to her, mouth agape. "You don't like acoustic?"

Joanne smirks like a cat that got the cream. "It's so boring. No beats."

"I has a beat. It's just not electronic," he argues defensively.

"B-o-ring."

"Is not."

She leans toward him. "This is the most I've ever heard you say outside of class. You must really like music."

Jisung shrugs. "I play guitar."

"Sick."

He stares at her coolly. "I know."

"I know," she mocks and Jisung snorts again in spite of himself. "Hey... um... you're friends with Lino, right?"

"Minho? Yeah."

"Do you know what he'd like for Valentine's Day?"

Jisung rolls his eyes physically. "I don't want to be the one to tell you this, but Minho doesn't like Judy. He doesn't like anyone. The only thing he'd ever be happy getting on Valentine's is a cookie and it could come from an Alaskan bull worm for all he cares."

It's harsh, but she needs to hear it. Her face falls. "No one?"

"No."

Her lips pull together. "But he likes cookies?"

"Don't bother. Minho has a romantic bone the size of an eraser top."

A lull. 

Jisung checks on her and startles when she's slumped over with her head down. Long hair lays flat in timorous strands, her pink hair resembling melted ice cream rather than freshly strawberries. 

"Don't feel bad. You can't make everyone happy," he says in a watered-down effort of comfort.

"But I don't want to make everyone happy," Joanne says. "I want to make _her_ happy. And if she likes him, the least I can do is get to know him better."

Joanne is an overdose of sincerity and Jisung doesn't know how to cope with that.

"It was a shot in the dark anyways. I asked Sam too and he said the same thing."

And with one word, the resentment pools inside of him. "Do you know what you're getting him for Valentine's?" Jisung wants to smack himself for his lack of filter.

Joanne looks taken aback by the change of topics. "Lino?"

"No. Sam."

"Uh—not really."

He's going to regret this till the day he dies. "I'm his best friend."

"You are."

"So, I know what he likes."

"You do."

"I," he says usefully "I can't do anything about Minho, but I can help you with Sam." 

_Stupid Jisung,_ his brain berates.

_Shut up,_ Jisung snaps.

For a moment, he fears he's falling prey to the hormones but when he tries to picture him and Joanne in a romantic context, he nearly chokes

Joanne stares at him— like _really_ stares at him—but then she smirks. "Okay."

Next thing you know, he's spilling like a leaky faucet. "Sammy's favorite subject is English. Everyone thinks he's such a Chad, but he reads a lot at home."

"That's Judy's favorite too," Joanne cuts in. "I got her the first Harry Potter book for her birthday. It's her number one book."

"I didn't get him a book, but I did get him this cool bookmark. It's metal and has a ribbon on it. He uses it with every book he reads. And he reads a lot. He reads really well too. He's good at everything."

"Judy is too."

"But can she swim?" Jisung questions. "Hyunjin has a ton of medals for swimming."

Joanne puffs her cheeks. "Can Hyunjin dance? I bet Judy's a better dancer."

"He doesn't, but he likes to. I think he might want a sweatband as a gift." He contemplates. He'll have to find out where they sell those. 

As they make their rounds, Jisung and Joanne find out way too much about each other's best friends to the point where they forgot what they were talking about in the first place. 

But Jisung finds out more about Joanne too. About how she thought her mother's eyeliner was a pencil and used it to write her homework. About how she has more of a cackle than a laugh. About how her Korean name is Ryujin, Joanne chosen by her friends.

When they make it back to the classroom, Jisung is struck with a startling realization: he likes Joanne. He really likes her. Not as a crush, but for as much as a human being can appreciate another. 

"Thanks. It was nice talking to you," she says before entering. She's a splash of color against pallid beige walls and he admits with an unwilling bitterness that she is awfully pretty. 

"No problem. Anytime," he says but an ugly feeling is back. It's a swooping sensation—it's guilt. A part of him aches but at least it's better than the green-eyed monster knocking on his chest.

.

.

.

  
  


It's over 100° outside and the metal of the signature orange music note burns hot enough for a barbecue. The air conditioner spits out the frostiest breeze on its setting, but no customers arrive to bask in the coolness.

Jisung and Hyunjin unwind in the chill of the practice room. Jisung fiddles with a ukulele while Hyunjin sits on the opposite wall throwing a tennis ball in the air. 

The room itself is a tiny thing, but Hyunjin's long legs could stretch and touch the other side without cramping. No windows hang above them. It's also quiet, perfect for conversation.

"I still don't understand why Bakugou of all people is your favorite character in _My Hero Academia_ out of all the heroes we've ever been introduced to," comments Jisung, bored of playing. "He's a bully and an overall jerk."

Hyunjin throws the ball again. "We went over this. I don't like him because he's a jerk or a bully. I think nobody would like him in the first episode. But that's not the appeal. He's going to grow up to be a great person. Not now, but he will be. Didn't you see him in the newest episode? Bad-ass."

"Yeah, emphasis on ass and bad."

"Hey! Everyone loves a good redemption arc!"

"I'm just saying. There are plenty of other characters way better than him."

"Like who?"

"Kirishima," Jisung states proudly. "He's nice and friendly. Plus, he's got to be a saint for being Bakugou's best friend."

“Not gonna lie, that’s a really good choice,” admits Hyunjin. He thinks a bit more and his eyes widen. “Shit, that’s a really good choice!” His hand reaches out and they high-five.

Then, Hyunjin's phone goes off. He picks it up and Jisung dreads to see Joanne's name on he screen. The other shrugs after reading the message.

"Who was it?"

"My dads are having a date night on Valentine's. They want me to ask if you can sleep over so I don't cause three earthquakes."

"I'm game," he says. "That reminds me. I'm not done with their cards yet."

"Cards?"

"For Valentine's," he clarifies. "It's coming up in, like, two days, and I'm not finished."

"Who else did you make cards for?" Hyunjin barely catches the ball he tossed.

"Ms. Pogroszewski and Mr. Kim," Jisung lists.

"Anyone else?" 

"No."

"Really? No one else comes to mind. At all."

"Nope."

"Huh," says Hyunjin, frowning deeply. "Why not?"

"I think friendship cards are weird. I don't like anyone in our class either." Jisung hopes Hyunjin drops the subject, but life never works the way he wants it to. 

"You don't like anybody in our class," he repeats. "Not even Wendy? Lucine? Hana?"

"Honestly," Jisung puts his ukulele down, "I think the whole crush thing is a joke."

The ball stops in Hyunjin's hand and his best friend stares at him with an oddly determined gaze. "What do you mean by that?"

"I mean," he sighs, "don't you think we're a little too young for that? We're what? Eleven? It's too early for us to say things like "I love you" like we know what it means. I don't get how our classmates can do that. It's so... weak."

"Are they wrong?"

Jisung pauses in disbelief. He expects this line of thinking from one of his other classmates, not Hyunjin. Sometimes he forgets that his friend is just like them—strung along by false impressions. 

"Of course, they're wrong. Love is serious. Special. It's for people who know what it is and how much it means. We don't know what love is right now. Nobody our age does," says Jisung with exasperation. "Do you?"

"Yes," says Hyunjin. "I love my parents. I love you."

Jisung flinches. An wall builds between him and the others and he feels useless to stop its construction. "Jinnie, that's not the same."

"Why not?"

"Because it's more... complicated than that."

Hyunjin shakes his head. "You think too much. Love is just a feeling like anger or surprise and sometimes we can't help feeling what we do. When you watch a sad movie, you can't help but cry. Or when you hear something funny, you can't help but laugh. It's the same thing with love, I think. If they make you warm, it's love. If they make you smile, that's love too. It's dumb love, but it's there."

"That's not love," says Jisung. "I hate it when people call things love when it's not because it makes it out to be something shorter, smaller, and just less of what it should be. People rush in and bet their whole life on someone thinking it'll last. And it doesn't."

Despite the distinct clean smell of windex tinging the wooden floor, the scent of smoke passes like a ghost.

"You don't think love can be forever?" asks Hyunjin. There's something in his eyes, fierce and blazing. 

Jisung wants to scoff, but mostly he's disappointed. Hyunjin puts on his rose-colored glasses and thinks love is everywhere and in everyone like there are no consequences for those cursory feelings. Simplicity colors his view when it's not the reality for every person out there. His parents love each other, in the truest sense. Hyunjin doesn't have any idea of anything different—anything less. 

Hyunjin is his best friend and he doesn't understand Jisung at all. 

"No. I think it can be. But not for everyone."

"This and that? It's all the same to me. Whether it goes away or it stays. We love, we just badly. Because before you can be good at loving another person, you have to suck at it first."

Jisung averts his gaze. "Agree to disagree."

A terse silence lingers in the space between them. It's been a long time since shared quietude became more suffocating than tranquil. Jisung ignores the discomfort and strums at his ukulele with a murky cesspool of thoughts swimming through his head. Hyunjin sits stone-still against the wall, ball loose in his grip. 

The clock ticks and they have to be home in time for dinner. He locks up the door and the pair wanders back with stitched up lips and cold tongues. The glow of lights from Hyunjin's house peer into view and finally one of them speaks.

"I stand by what I said," says Hyunjin, not quite meeting Jisung's gaze.

"What?"

"That I love you, your definition and mine."

"You're an idiot." When his best friend looks stricken by his response, he breaks out into a gummy smile and whispers, "I love you too, for as long as I can."

.

.

.

Jisung stretches his fingers out as he walks up the stairs to his bedroom, shaking his wrist to dull the ache.

A glint of light strikes him from the living room. He looks down at the source at the coffee table where the fake gold lining of his envelope reflects off the faded paint. A thin layer of dust covers the paper, untouched.

Jisung stares and stares, but the pain in his wrist is more troublesome than the habitual numbness in his chest, so he moves on.

For all he wants to believe Hyunjin, for all he wants to believe that at some point in their relationship his parents were truly in love with each other, the fact remains. If his parents sincerely loved each other half as much as they fooled themselves to believe, they'd have loved Jisung too.

.

.

.

Valentine's Day arrived with fanfare, pink glitter scouring the school.

Jisung passed the day lazily until the much anticipated finale everyone was talking about occurred—distributing the cards. Ms. Liu greeted them after lunch by handing out the pink-red-magenta monstrosities.

Honestly, despite all the buildup to it, he thought it was all very anticlimactic. 

He rests his head on his hand, watching as letter after letter found its place on Hyunjin's desk. First, a yellow card with a horribly drawn puppy lands on his pencil box. Afterward, blue, orange, and lilac variations form a small stack in front of him.

Mirroring Hyunjin's small mound is Minho who unabashedly tears out the candy on the inside without bothering to read the contents. 

"Are you alright?" poses Seungmin, observing his pinched face. 

"I'm fine," he says unconvincingly. 

If Jisung pretends the scenarios drawn in front of him are clips from a movie screen, the exchanges may prove themselves to be even mildly entertaining.

Marianne hands Marcus two Dum Dum lollipops, cotton candy and strawberry-flavored, bought for one dollar from the convenience store across the street. Rebekah gives out cards to everyone, Hershey's kisses stuck to the front with double-sided tape, making the nose of her crayon happy face. Jesus dedicates a card to himself, guzzling pixie stix and Willy Wonka fun dip he refuses to share. 

A girlish squeal pushes out of Mina, and Jisung watches as she barrels into Changbin's waiting arms. He helps wrap the charm necklace around her neck, his smile dopey and cheeks red.

He better be overjoyed, because none of them waited for three hours in the sun on several separate occasions for him not to be satisfied with himself. 

When Judy Lee picks her card out from Minho's venerable pile and shows it to the boy, Minho grins at her in that open but aloof manner of his, reading it carefully, and patting her back. Jisung sees Joanne grinning in excitement for her, and he knows it was the correct choice to instruct Minho to be especially kind to her.

Ms. Liu stands in front of his desk, casting a shadow over his prone figure. Her wide grin unnerves him. "Lucky you, Honey! You have a secret admirer!" she coos.

She hands him one card without a name indicating the sender. It's a deep red, his favorite color, and the array of Kit Kats form a heart. When he opens the card, a cheesy haiku is typed out in bold 36-point Comic Sans:

**I Like When You Smile**

**You Are Kind Every Day**

**Can You See Me Too?**

Seungmin leans in close to peer at the letter in his hands. “Who do you think it’s from?”

Jisung shrugs, turning it upside down and inside out for who it could possibly be. It could be a prank for all he knows. "I don't know."

"Do you like it?" he questions again insistently.

Jisung rips off one of the Kit Kat bars, tearing it open, and popping the chocolate wafer into his mouth. The melt of milk chocolate livens his taste buds, his favorite kind of chocolate. "I love it."

For some reason Jisung can't decipher, Seungmin turns crimson and stutters, “Oh—uh—s-since you—”

"Hannie!" Hyunjin's voice interrupts, jogging up to his side of the class and hugging him. He's been more affectionate after their talk "How many cards did you get?"

He lifts the anonymous note once they separate. "One."

Hyunjin smiles at him easily, but his feet shift from one to the other. "And?"

"And what?"

"Any other cards you're giving out?"

Jisung looks at him curiously. "I thought I told you. I'm giving cards to you parents and my teachers."

"No! Not those!" Hyunjin shakes his head, antsy. "Don't you have one for me?"

"No?"

"But it's me!"

"I already said I wasn't going to make any more cards."

"But it's _me!"_ Hyunjin emphasizes. 

"All friends and women are created equal." 

Hyunjin groans in frustration. "Fine. Whatever." And he stalks off back to his seat with his shoulders hunched. 

He hears Seungmin try to speak to him again, but it's muted—white noise. In fact, the world halts on its axis at the scene.

When Hyunjin returns to his desk, he rummages through his backpack, the same red power ranger backpack from first grade, and takes out a small quokka plush, the winking one he asked about at Little Tokyo. A string is loosely tied around its neck, attached to a small paper.

He walks to Joanne, slow but sure—and Jisung can't breathe, his lungs seize—and taps on her shoulders. Joanne turns around with that beautiful blinding smile that shines even brighter when he hands her the stuffed animal. 

She's euphoric, radiant, sunny.

Joanne is pretty, from head-to-toe.

He stares and stares but it doesn't make the stuffed animal go away. It doesn't make the pink of Hyunjin's ears fade. The world continues to turn because that is all it can do. 

They laugh and Seungmin's voice is back, stronger than before. 

Jisung blinks. "I'm sorry, what'd you say?"

Seungmin smiles at him weakly. "Nevermind."

.

.

.

Seungmin Kim has a secret: he likes Jisung Han.

He started liking Jisung on a hot day. It was another one of those steaming Los Angeles summers that transfigured your ice cream to a milkshake as soon as you left the parlor. He was sweating. They all were.

Imagine children without much cash in their pockets lying underneath a skinny sycamore tree planted beside Changbin's church. One brings their Yu-Gi-Oh cards. Another brings their Beyblade. They spend all their time debating over the best show until they decide that they're tired and want to sleep on the grass. 

There's nothing particularly special about the fall, but he remembers it.

This is the background: his grandmother was visiting from Korea and she had colonized Seungmin's room while he had to sleep on the patchy couch with a small pillow and a raggedy blanket. His parents allowed this this woman to pick at his chubby cheeks and criticize his weight in Korean because they think he doesn't understand.

(Fun fact: he does.)

He hated his grandmother then and hates her now and he has no shame in proclaiming his dislike like a prayer. He's grumpy, rude, and complains about his family to an audience of emotionally inept adolescent boys. Because they're boys, their solution to his problem is to cover it up with games.

Seungmin laid under the tree moodily until they joined him under the shade. 

"I'm going to Marty's," Jisung announced suddenly. It was a lonely convenience store across the street.

"Why?" asked Hyunjin.

"I have a dollar."

It was a sufficient excuse, so they let him go alone. Warmth had the tranquilizing effect of seizing the mobility of children under its jurisdiction—they were too lazy to tag along. 

Minutes passed and Seungmin's mind cycled through the latest Yu-Gi-Oh episodes, his family, and the sun. Jisung came back and laid down beside him.

Hyunjin kicked him. "What did you buy?"

"Nunya."

Sneakily, Jisung pushed a cylindrical object into Seungmin's palm. He knew from the narrow shape and the way the wrapper crinkled that he was holding a _Tootsie Roll,_ his favorite candy that he mentioned in passing months before.

They didn't speak much after the small act of kindness. Seungmin wasn't even sure if they even qualified as friends at that point, mere sidekicks of their more outgoing counterparts.

But, after a while, he tilted his head toward Jisung curiously, meeting the other's stringy white baseball cap. It was pulled up over his face, reminiscent of a mask. 

Seungmin stared as long as he liked, and in the end, Jisung tugged his hat ever-so-slowly downwards and returned his inquiring gaze. The other's hand was cool as ice when it squeezed on Seungmin's wrist.

That was when it happened.

This was the climax: heat filtered through the spaces uncovered by the leaves, a pile of boys pressed against each other, and Jisung killed Seungmin with a smile. 

Their moment was lost when Hyunjin sneezed and Jisung directed his attention elsewhere, but the image of pink complimenting tan skin, bright eyes that formed crescents, and the adorable crinkle of his nose was recorded on the disk of Seungmin's heart.

Seungmin Kim had one thought: he wanted to kiss Jisung Han.

.

.

.

He has another secret: he still wants to.

* * *

_There comes a time in your life when you have to choose to turn the page, write another book or simply close it._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Straight!Minho? Gay!Minho? Nah. We going ACE!Minho. 
> 
> *From now on, any strangers will refer to Jisung as "Honey" because they misheard "Hannie" once and it stuck. I'm speaking it into existence rn. 
> 
> *Don't get attached to Seungsung. 
> 
> *After I finish fifth grade next chapter, imma go on a break so I can catch up on my other fics (check em out bc I'll be there :D) and play Pokemon.


	12. fifth grade: act three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: explicit non-consensual kiss beginning around "I like you."

Seungmin watches Jisung watch Hyunjin. That one sentence characterizes their entire relationship. 

It's frustrating. Not being seen. But Seungmin has a lot of experience with being the shadow. With his flashy best friend and his popular companions and his perfect older sister who is pretty and thin and smart, Seungmin wears second-best like a favorite hat raggedy after a storm. It's just that this time, it feels less acceptable and he's not quite sure why. 

He thinks he has grown too greedy, longing after an unattainable desire. Yet, when he pictures those wide eyes that held a galaxy and that sunshine smile directed only for him, he seethes with want. He desperately wants to be Hyunjin—handsome and athletic and wholeheartedly Jisung's. 

Strangely enough, though, for the past few weeks, that particular trend has been broken. 

Jisung had liked watching Hyunjin, hip to hip, ear to ear, so their bodies matched the connection of their hearts. Now, he sits beside Seungmin, arms crossed and quiet. He doesn't shift his body. He doesn't do anything at all except pick at his Sloppy Joe moodily. 

This mysterious change began on Valentine's Day or at least Seungmin thinks it did. Because he remembers the joy that rushed through him when Jisung chose his side of the lunch table for the first time and how he continued to choose him the day after and more. Jisung stopped watching Hyunjin and started seeing Seungmin and it was a scene he couldn't believe even in his wildest dreams. Because it's Jisung, the boy whose world is dictated by Hyunjin's gravity. He was finally swinging in Seungmin's orbit. 

He felt so lucky he almost forgot that luck had never been his friend. 

Seungmin remembers the devastation that followed the realization: Jisung watches Hyunjin like Seungmin watches Jisung. Like he's longing for someone he can't have. 

.

.

.

To know Jisung is to know Hyunjin. Seungmin stays silent and pretends like he doesn't notice Hyunjin looking back. 

.

.

.

The Alex Theatre stands washed-out amidst the sleek edifices populating downtown, a drop of beige between ardent blues, lustrous silvers, and glossy red. The giant "A" blinks on and off throughout the afternoon. Nonetheless, this less-than-shiny location is the site of the talent show. 

It's not the first time he's performed in front of others, but it is the largest venue. The Alex Theatre is old, but it is huge. Its velvet rows stretch across two floors. He specifically begged for tickets near the top middle so his friends could be seen through the searing heat of the stage light, but perhaps he should have picked somewhere simpler so they don't get lost. 

"Honey, you're almost up," says Ms. Pogroszewski, patting him on the back. 

He jumps. 

A guitar larger than life stands before him and tonight he was the lucky performer granted the honor to hold it. A voice shouts and the curtains rustle but all he can register is how the phosphorescence warms his skin. The collar of his shirt is tighter than it should be. 

He's nervous. 

His fingers tremble and so do his legs. For once his confidence shakes. Faintly, he hears the announcer call his name and his legs function on auto-pilot as he reaches the stool in the middle of the stage. He looks to the crowd and is petrified, masks on their faces like phantoms. He can't see his friends. He can't see his teacher. There's an ocean of people in front of him and he knows none of them. 

Before his trembling hands lift the guitar, a piercing, "GO HONEY! QUOKKA BOY FOR THE WIN! is screeched from the audience. 

Jisung tries not to bang his head on the mic. Freaking Changbin. But the shock stills his nerves. 

He rolls his shoulders back more calmly and delves into the essence of Ed Sheeran where he falls in love with music all over again, the same way he always does whenever his fingers hit the strings. There's an inexplicable quality about your first love. 

His voice whispers the final note and he raises his head, trembling. When the applause roars, deafening the sense, nothing fills him with more glee than when he looks up and finds Mr. Kim clapping, eyes brimming with pride. 

.

.

.

While stringy cirrus clouds dissolved into the merlot sky and stars peeked out of the Earth, weaving into the boundless fabric, a thick scream echoes off the walnut-colored walls of the theatre.

"HANNIE!" yells a short boy with Jisung's face printed on the front of his T-shirt. He dodges under arms and leaps over expensive shoes. 

Parents funnel out of the venue, bouquets in one hand and their children in the other. Girls as young as four bounce into the plaza, their dresses shaped like cupcakes. However, despite the influx of people crowding the entrance and refreshment stands, Changbin Seo plows through all of them.

"Han. Ji. Sung!" Jisung braces himself before getting tackled to the ground by a huge force. "That was so good! You didn't tell me you could sing!"

The thick cotton muffles Jisung's protests as Changbin had wrapped his arms around his neck and over his mouth. Jisung punches him in the stomach, inhaling deeply after his release. "I sang at Minho's party remember!"

Three other bodies dogpile on them. 

"Your fingers moved so fast it was like KACHOW and KABOOM and KABLAM," gushes Minho. "You were holding back on us!"

"Don't trust anything he says, he fell asleep halfway," says Seungmin, squished between him and Changbin. 

A pair of arms snake around his waist. "You did great," whispers Hyunjin. 

Jisung hurriedly burrows out of the pile. He nags, "I'd say thank you if you guys didn't just try to suffocate me right now."

"That's the best way to go out if we're being honest."

Felix pushes through the crowd with Chan trailing behind him, arms full of water bottles. They both look equal parts tired but their faces light up when they see Jisung, tie unraveled and hair askew. 

"You're a mess!" remarks Felix. He fruitlessly attempts to smooth out the wild strands and retie the tie. He's so close Jisung can see how long his eyelashes are, further elongated by some shiny liquid.

"You blew me out of the water," compliments Chan, handing him a water bottle, "but you were a bit fast. Try to slow the pace. Other than that, it was phenomenal."

Jisung nods eagerly. "Noted."

"Hannie's tie was just a little loose! How did you manage to lose yours completely?" Felix yells at his son who plugs up his ears. 

"It just vanished!" says Hyunjin petulantly. 

Jisung sees Minho hide a long striped fabric in a stranger's purse. 

A sprightly jingle cuts through his snickering. He smells the baby wipes before he sees the stroller. Mr. Kim approaches him in a wool-knit sweater, Mrs. Kim beside him. 

"You made it!" Jisung shouts. 

"Of course I did," says Mr. Kim. "I'd never miss a performance by my favorite student."

"I thought I was your favorite student!" protests Hyunjin. 

"Of course you are."

Minho, Seungmin, and Changbin spot the baby and instantly begin to poke, prod, and coo at the miniature ball of snot. The infant himself is a small chubby thing who burbles and gurgles too much. 

"Hello there, Innie!" greets Jisung, holding one of his hands. 

Jeongin drools. 

"Nice to meet you too. Did you like my singing?"

Jeongin spits on Jisung. 

"Thank you."

Hyunjin cackles. "He thinks you suck."

"You suck."

Chan calls out to them. "Kids, we're going to get Korean barbecue. Three can ride in our car. Mr. Kim said his car can fit two."

Hyunjin wraps his arm around Jisung. "Dibs!" he declares and they race to Mr. Kim's convertible.

.

.

.

Star BBQ is a cheap restaurant infamous for cycling through its owners yearly—none of them ever Korean—with meat that wasn't as fresh as it could be. At least it tried with its semi-Asian aesthetic, implementing bamboo plants which obscured the window, but other than that the interior made do with being a slighter better version of Denny's with a grill slapped on every table. 

However, you can't exactly afford to be picky when feeding a table of growing boys. 

"There are five of us," Minho states the obvious. "That means three of us need to squish on one side. So, any volunteers or will we have to start eliminating people?"

"Nose goes!" Changbin shouts and they scramble to touch their noses. 

The seating ends up with Hyunjin, Seungmin, and Jisung in that order. Minho and Changbin mock them by spreading their legs in the open space. Hyunjin proceeds to hurl raw meat on their shirts. 

"What if we get E.Coli!" yelps Minho, tossing off the brisket. 

"It's what you deserve."

They order all types of meat from the menu, spicy and non-spicy, so much so that the adults' wallets would be weeping by the end of it. They yammer about the same dumb boy things they usually yammer about—like anime and girls and basketball—and it should be fun. Sometimes, the adults check in on their behavior, always making sure to smile at Jisung proudly and it should feel flattering. But even though he's laughing and he's warm and it should arguably be the best day of his life, it's not. 

A numbness throbs in Jisung's chest and he doesn't understand why. He's surrounded by his best friends and his role-models. He's been showered in praises from his teacher to his peers. He's eating his favorite food. Yet why can't he be happy?

He sets down his chopsticks. "I'm going to the restroom." He heads to the door. 

"Wrong way, dingus!" Changbin calls out to him. 

"As if I'm going to use these gross bathrooms," he shouts back, not caring if the owner heard him. 

A yellow gibbous moon dangles above him when he exits. The night air which should have been crisp and cool is humid instead. The thickness of it stifles Jisung rather than give him the peace of mind he wanted. It was as if the thoughts dancing in his head weren't sacred enough to be left without a reminder of their perilous capacity. 

If Jisung was a movie star he'd have a cigarette tucked between perfect teeth as he watched the gray smoke fade into the sky contemplatively. But as it is, he's not a movie star. He's an eleven-year-old with crooked teeth, ungrateful for the chances he's given. If he was a better person, he wouldn't be yearning after the numbness which carved a hole where compassion should be. He is inherently greedy and selfish and that will never change. 

The door opens again behind him and he's surprised to see Seungmin, purple beanie covering his ears like it's colder than it is. He says, "I knew it."

"Knew what?"

"You didn't go to the bathroom."

"Maybe I was really fast."

"Sorry. I knew you couldn't go to the bathroom because the nearest bathroom is McDonald's."

Jisung doesn't reply. 

Seungmin shuffles next to him. His cheeks are brushed with that perpetual redness that Jisung began to associate with his natural state of being. "Why'd you leave?"

"No reason," replies Jisung, fixating on one of the blaring cars beeping across the road. "Why'd you follow?"

"Thought you needed a friend."

"Do I look that terrible?"

Seungmin hums. "No, I'm just observant."

.

.

.

A fool is a person who acts unwisely and imprudently and Seungmin is the fool chasing after a holy grail of a boy who sees him as nothing more than another distant planet circulating in Hyunjin's solar system. It's by sheer luck their atmospheres collided to form a semblance of friendship. There's not a single doubt in his mind that if Hyunjin weren't there as the string, Jisung wouldn't spare him a single glance. But Seungmin is a fool and he enjoys clinging onto those fraying ropes. 

"It's not that interesting."

Everything about you is interesting, Seungmin wants to say. But he doesn't. He says, "Maybe, but that doesn't mean it shouldn't be said."

"It's stupid, really."

"Hannie."

Jisung exhales and it's his victory. "I'm serious. I should have expected this. I shouldn't feel this way. It's—stupid." He shakes his head and waves vaguely at the group shielded by the bamboo. "Do you know who came today?"

"Yes."

"Do you know who didn't?"

The table brims with an exuberant assortment of people. Mr. Kim cradles Jeongin in his arms, burping him over his shoulder, speaking with Hyunjin's parents over the sizzle of the grill. Their friends shovel pounds of meat down their throat with the force of a thousand vacuums. But there's something missing. Seungmin notices none of them bear round eyes and plump lips, the familiar curve of puffy cheeks.

"Oh, Hannie," he mutters sadly. 

Jisung's face crumples like paper, ripping apart to the child inside because loneliness creeps even in the largest of parties, the loudness of friends. "What I don't understand is how come my teacher and his whole family can come to the show, but not even one of my parents stopped to say hello." His voice melts like ice. 

"Maybe they tried."

"No, they didn't. I gave them the invite and they let it collect dust." Jisung ducks down so his mouth is covered by the collar of his sweater. "They don't care how good I am at music. It makes me wonder why I try so hard."

"Why try?" Seungmin scoffs, eyes bleary. "Because it feels good. Because even though it hurts so much, just the act of trying brings you so much happiness and hope it feels like you actually can. Like if you stopped it would be so much worse."

"Minnie?"

"Sorry, it's just—there's a lot of things in life we can't have, and I know it hurts so much you sometimes want to give up but... if the act of trying brings you even the smallest bit of happiness. Then isn't it something worth doing? You're _awesome_ at music, Jisung. Not because of your parents, but because it's you."

They stand there, staring at each other, and Seungmin can physically feel the embarrassment crawl up his neck.

Jisung snorts. "Thanks, man."

The collar of Jisung's sweater sags and Seungmin is once again struck by the intensity of the climax: a hot breeze rustles their shirts, the dim glow of the Star BBQ sign illuminates the boy's face perfectly, and Jisung Han is _so_ pretty. 

The urge beats inside of him, stronger and stronger. Seungmin is greedy and he longs. 

"I like you."

Seungmin feels like his stomach is bursting with butterflies. Like his heart wants to break free of its cage. 

Jisung tilts his head. "What?"

"I was the one who made the Valentine and I meant every word of that poem. I like you. So much."

He's red. Like a rose. "I-I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything."

Seungmin Kim kisses Jisung Han and it's all he ever wanted. 

.

.

.

The emotions roll through Jisung in waves. 

Shock. 

Jisung never would have imagined that Seungmin liked him. They're friends, but they lack the history between him and Hyunjin. They miss the connection between him and Changbin. And, even though it shouldn't be important, Seungmin is a boy and as much as Jisung tries, he is blind to these developments, at least in regards to himself. 

Maybe that's where he messed up. He should have seen it coming. That's why Seungmin is acting now. Because Jisung never told him otherwise. 

Fear. 

Seungmin's hand is firm on Jisung's face and it feels suffocating, chaining him in his place. Jisung can't move and it scares but it's more than a physical force keeping him grounded. If he pushes him away, what will happen? Will Seungmin tell the others? Will Changbin scorn him for the rejection? Would Hyunjin leave him again?

A part of him cries out, mourning as his trust in Seungmin shatters like glass. He has so few he loves. He fears to lose him too. 

Disgust. 

Seungmin leans back after a few seconds. Jisung tastes the bruising sting of his lips and flinches when he finds it mirrored. He wants to hit him. He wants to smack him because this feeling keeps reverberating throughout the pores of his body and it doesn't stop. It roils in his stomach distastefully. 

But he's not a violent person. If Seungmin expects a reaction, he gets none. Jisung stares blankly, praying the muted light hides how he shudders, how tears dot the bottom of his eyelashes. He's nauseated. 

"And?" says Seungmin as if he cares about what Jisung thinks. 

"I'm sorry." Jisung tugs his collar so it covers his lips. "Can you... leave me alone a bit."

"I'm sorry too for saying it all of a sudden."

Jisung nods numbly. _Go away. _

"See you later?"

"Mm."

Seungmin walks back inside the restaurant. Jisung presses his forehead against the wall and tries to muffle his rampant breathing. 

.

.

.

Hyunjin frowns when Jisung returns to the table haggard. He slides a glass of water toward him and waits. 

.

.

.

The ride home is quiet, the only notable sounds being the clack of anniversary necklaces hanging from the rear-view mirror and the light snores whistling out of Hyunjin in minute intervals. The drive reminds him of when he first moved to Los Angeles. 

"Jisung, are you feeling okay? Did something happen?" asks Chan.

Even though Jisung's conscience pushes him to tell, he's not sure if they can help him or even if they could even understand. But if he can't tell them of all people, then he'd have to deal with this on his own and that's scarier. 

"Yes," he says. "I went outside for a bit and Seungmin followed me. We talked and then things happened."

Felix's voice grows worried. "What happened, Hannie?"

"He grabbed my face and kissed me." When he hears them gasp, he backtracks. "It wasn't for long though and he didn't grab me that hard."

Felix frowns. "Do you want us to talk to his parents?"

"No. I don't want to make it a big deal. It wasn't."

"It is," says Felix. "Did he ask?"

"No, but—" Despite feeling horrible, despite feeling vulnerable, Seungmin is his friend and he's good. "He said he liked me so much."

Chan's grip on the steering wheel tightens. Felix rubs his shoulder and turns as best he could in his seat. "It doesn't matter how he felt. It's about you. Did you want to kiss Seungmin."

"No, but—"

"Then that's that. He shouldn't have done that without asking you."

"He's not a bad person."

"He's not," Chan agrees. "He probably didn't know he was hurting you. But that doesn't make it okay. As long as you tell him about how you feel, I think it'll be alright."

Jisung nods gravely. "Okay... I think I'll talk to him tomorrow." 

"Will you tell Hyunjin?"

Jisung shakes his head. "No, I don't want to bother him."

Hyunjin slumbers on blissfully unaware. 

.

.

.

The last time Jisung went to Seungmin's house was August. Changbin's parents bought him a new bike and it was all he could talk about for a week. Truthfully, it was the most glorious thing they've ever seen in their life—neon green with a better grip and smoother turns. It was a dream wrapped in leather and aluminum but that didn't stop them from beating the boy up for bragging. 

It was supposed to be a quick test ride by _Griffith Park._ They couldn't bike down the hiking trail so they rode a path they've never been to before and there were a lot more twigs and rocks than they expected.

Seungmin's shabby two-wheeler inherited by his older sister broke down as soon as they reached the river. He rode over a rock and was catapulted forward, scraping his knee on the forest floor. They carried him, sobbing, where his mother screamed and screamed at him for ruining the bike because they couldn't afford a new one. 

When he came back outside, helmet dented, dirt on his cheeks, crying, they stood there helplessly. They painstakingly watched as Seungmin clung to Changbin's shirt and fell apart in front of them. Jisung remembers never wanting to be the reason Seungmin cried. 

It's funny how things change in the span of months. 

The Kim's live in a single-story abode topped with a tiled roof burnt like bread. Yellow paint faded on the walls, weathered by time. 

Jisung shoves his bike on their patch lawn and ambles up to the door. The doorbell is broken so he knocks. 

Seungmin's father greets him. "Hello? Are you a friend of my son's?"

"Yes, I'm Jisung," he says anxiously. "Is Seungmin home?"

"Yeah, let me call him." He goes back inside and Jisung hears loud yelling followed by a stampede of steps. 

Seungmin replaces his father, nervous when he sees him. "Hannie?"

"Hey."

"What are you doing here?"

"I—um—wanted to talk about last night."

Seungmin's face flushes, nibbling on his lips. The same lips that bruised his. "Okay, do you wanna come inside."

Jisung shuffles backward. "Um, I'd rather we talk out here."

"Okay."

Seungmin leads him to the patio bench and Jisung hates how relaxed Seungmin is. As if he slept soundly knowing he stole Jisung's first kiss. Like Jisung had no right to be so mad, like he's overexaggerating. But he knows the repulsive touch grabbing at him won't go away unless he says something. This is about him. Not Seungmin. 

"Do you wanna start?" asks Seungmin. 

Jisung breathes in. Then, out. "I didn't like it when you kissed me. I hated it," he says bluntly because that's the kind of person he is. He won't say anything less than what he means. 

"Oh, you're not pulling any punches." Seungmin smiles weakly because that's the kind of person he is. He deals with pain using laughter and love and it's that kind of character that convinces Jisung of their capacity to rebuild what they lost. 

But before they can fix it, they have to break it first. 

Jisung clenches his hands to stop the trembles. "I wish you asked me. I would have said no. But you didn't give me the choice to say that, because you took that away. I... hated that too."

"I'm sorry."

"I was scared."

Seungmin looks heartbroken, but Jisung is too. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to make you feel that way." 

"Then why did you do it?"

Seungmin is the spitting image of that day in August, hair disheveled and on the verge of tears. But this time, the other starts to crack and a sick part of Jisung goes good. "I did it... because you were all I ever wanted and... you were right there." Hands mask the sorrow of his face but regret drips from every syllable of his words. "Please believe me. If I could go back, I'd stop myself from kissing you if I knew it made you this upset."

"Really?"

"Of course. You mean a lot to me. It sounds stupid, but I want what you want. And if it's not me and I can learn to be okay with that. Really."

The phantom of a touch recedes, replaced by tiredness. He hates fighting. Loud noises scare him, others most of all. Sincerity tugs him in the right places and he's never been one to hold a grudge.

Seungmin sits beside him, hands fell from his face and on his lap. He's heartbroken and it's heartwrenching and Jisung doesn't like it when they are needlessly hurting. He accomplished what he came here for: Seungmin understands. 

"Thank you," he says. "Even though I don't understand you or why you like me, thank you. I want to fix us."

A sigh escapes Seungmin, not one of weighty repentance, but the sigh of someone who knew exactly what would happen and had long accepted the result. "You don't know why I like you? Hannie, look at you. I did something you hated. You cried. But you still think we can be friends. I thought you'd hate me after this, but you're so... nice and it comes so easily to you."

Jisung frowns. "Me? Nice?"

"Do you remember the first summer we hung out together?"

It's his most precious summer. He found music that summer. Friends. "Of course."

"Everyone was ignoring my problem or was trying to cover it up. But not you. When even Changbin didn't want to talk about it, you saw me and paid attention. You gave me my favorite candy. You—" Seungmin pauses, staring at Jisung painfully. "And that was that."

Too many days blurred into one that Jisung struggled to pluck one from the sea of memories surging from the depths of his recollection. He remembers Marty's convenience store and thinking nothing of it. "It was just a tootsie roll."

Seungmin smiles, a little weak. "No, it wasn't. Not for me."

Jisung realizes then that Seungmin must have liked him more than words could say and actions can express. With the gravity of those feelings, he almost wants to break. 

They paint a pretty pathetic picture. Two twiggy kids with their eyes swollen and tired bent toward each other, but not daring to meet eyes. The lacquer of the bench peels off, revealing the cracked wood underneath, the fissures marring the opening. 

Seungmin speaks first. "Can we go back to what we used to be?"

"I want to."

"But can we?"

Jisung smiles. He doesn't notice how Seungmin wilts at the sight of it. "Of course, we will. It's us."

.

.

.

_Creak. Creak. _

Rusted chains grind against each other as Jisung swings back-and-forth under the purpling canvas. This is a pretty eerie image as well. No one resides at the playground save for a lone streetlight which barely clicked on while dusk climbed the ladder of the Earth. Jisung spends his time observing the sycamore tree embedded in the outline of the church, noting how it grew taller and stronger. 

An emptiness remains. It ended too quickly. It ended with two images trashed and stomped on. It was the right thing to do. A relationship can't thrive on misunderstandings, but the feeling of wistfulness remained. 

_Creak. Creak. _

"You jerk! I've been looking all over for you!"

Jisung twists his body and sees a comet hurtling toward him. Hyunjin and his meteor shower of fierceness sprint to the worn-out swings. Sweat soaks his thick light blue sweater, a backpack slung over his shoulder. His twinkle is more of a flame as his best friend stops in front of him, hunched over in exhaustion. 

"Jinnie? Shouldn't you be at swim practice?"

"I—skipped." Hyunjin huffs three big breaths. "Do you know how much it sucks to hear what happened from Minho?"

His heart falls. "What?"

"Don't 'what' me." Hyunjin recovers and stands straight. "Why didn't you tell me about what Seungmin did as soon as it happened. I had to hear it from Minho who heard it from Changbin. That's two whole people before it reached me."

Another beat. 

"What did he tell you?"

"That Seungmin kissed you." He's a storm from the pinch of his nose to the disconcerted crease of his chin. He's a mess with hurricane hair. 

"Oh." Jisung looks away. "I didn't want to bother you."

"But it's me!"

"You keep on saying that but I don't get it."

Hyunjin collapses on the empty swing beside Jisung. "I feel like we have this conversation every year but it never makes it through your big head. We're supposed to tell each other when things go wrong. Because that's what I'm here for."

Jisung pouts. "Big heads are for big minds."

Hyunjin glares and they know it's serious. "Aren't you tired of how we're growing up, but we're still the same feet apart? We always move on, but never from this spot."

"Our bodies grow up, not us," says Jisung, but Hyunjin's right. His best friend is on a swing miles away and he can't catch up. 

_Creak. Creak. _

"Be honest. Why didn't you tell me?"

Jisung prefers his secrets, but Hyunjin has the key to all of them. "I... don't like depending on you."

"Why not?"

"Because it makes me feel like I didn't change. I thought I was the mature one, but I'm actually just a huge baby. When Seungmin kissed me, I thought you'd see me as one too. Needing you to hold my hand. Needing to take care of me over something so... stupid."

Hyunjin lets out an indignant squawk. "We're still us. Still dumb and loud. Also, it wasn't something stupid. That was your first kiss." There's a horrified pause. "Oh, my God. That was your first kiss."

"Yeah."

"Hannie!"

"Jinnie," Jisung mocks but it's not well-received. 

"That was your first kiss!" says Hyunjin, near hysterical. 

"I know and it sucked."

"It can't! And the way it was—and Seungmin!" Hyunjin rests his head against the chain weakly. "I gonna beat him up."

Jisung laughs and it's so normal. It's nothing like the craziness of the year. Hyunjin is simplicity in complexity, a familiar song. "Please don't."

Hyunjin pouts, full lip out with his nose scrunched and Jisung leans forward and pokes it. "What was that for?"

"You're ugly."

Hyunjin's pout softens to a frown. 

"What?" asks Jisung. 

"I'm mad about the kiss."

Jisung rolls his eyes playfully. "Move on. I know I will."

_Creak. Creak. _

"Can I kiss you?"

He chokes. "Hyunjin!" he yells. "What the heck?"

Apparently, there's nothing wrong with the statement to Hyunjin other than his reaction, because he replies petulantly, "I don't want your only memory of affection being Seungmin's sausage lips. I have a hard enough time hugging you as it is."

"Okay, but a kiss? Are you serious?"

"Only if you want to," says Hyunjin, shier. "I don't want that to be your last memory of something that was supposed to be amazing."

Jisung thinks of strawberry hair and a big heart. "What about Joanne?" Saying her name hurts him but he doesn't want to hurt her.

"What does Joanne have to do with this?"

"Isn't she your Valentine? Well, girlfriend now, I guess."

Hyunjin's light blue body stops swinging, digging his feet into the dirt. "What!" He stands up. "Are you an idiot!"

Jisung stands up too, heavily offended. "You gave her the stuffed toy! You said it was for your Valentine!"

"Yeah," says Hyunjin. "And my Valentine was an idiot, so I gave it away!" His sentence trails off and his eyes grow wide. "I'm the idiot."

"Nothing new."

"Shut up. Shut up right now. I don't want to hear a word." He picks up his backpack and pulls out an even larger stuffed toy. Without preamble, he hurls it at Jisung. "There's your stupid present, you stupid Valentine."

The toy is soft and warm. Jisung flips it up and gasps happily at the round pink _Kirby_ in his hands. It's the character that he adored so much. It's his favorite present ever. It hits him why he got it. 

"I'm your Valentine?" he says in disbelief.

"Yup."

"Not Joanne?"

Hyunjin runs a hand through his hair. "I don't even know how you got that. Everyone, I mean everyone, knows that she likes Jesus. The pixie stix were from her."

Joanne, pretty Joanne, who can dance and is smart and has a heart of gold doesn't like Hyunjin. She never liked him in the first place. She never ever wanted to take him away. A huge weight feels like it's been lifted. 

He almost doesn't hear Hyunjin's rambling. "And I know that I was kind of a jerk when I gave her your original gift, but you didn't give me anything either."

"You don't like Joanne," he says. 

"I just said I didn't."

"Okay."

"Okay, what."

"Give me a kiss, idiot. No homo, though."

Hyunjin sneers. "You're an ass."

"You're dumb."

"You're double dumb."

"Well, you're—"

Hyunjin leans in and Jisung shuts his eyes tight, waiting and he doesn't even care because Hyunjin doesn't like Joanne, pretty Joanne, and she doesn't like Hyunjin and he's been worrying for nothing. They're still best friends. 

But nothing lands on his face. His hands lift and when he opens his eyes, he sees his best friend bowed down. This boy kissed his hand. 

Jisung stutters, yanking it back. "I-I thought you were gonna—"

"—do it here?" finishes Hyunjin, tapping Jisung's lips. "Nah. Keep your kisses. It's better when they're wanted. Idiot."

And the comet turns, zipping up his backpacks smoothly, walking away from the crime scene. The tips of his ears are peach. He's not affected at all. 

Heat creeps up Jisung's cheeks. His Valentine's gift warms his side. 

_Creak. Creak. _

This is the scene of the climax and Jisung is falling. 

.

.

.

Jisung dials the only person he could trust with this information. 

"Minho," he whispers into the phone. 

* * *

_The higher you build walls around your heart, the harder you fall when someone tears them down._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I apologize if it was sudden and uncomfortable. I read the AFTG series and consent was a huge part of the books, so I wanted to incorporate it. Seungmin made a mistake and they discussed it. 
> 
> \- Seungsung is effectively ended. But now Hyunsung has effectively begun.
> 
> \- I said this in the previous chapter, but I'll be stopping here, for now, to focus on my other works. I'm thinking I'll work on "jiography" for the remainder of this year then "diverged at a road" beginning 2020 before hopping back here. Sorry for the long wait T.T but I hope to see you later


	13. summer intermission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuse. I legit forgot about this.

Something is intoxicating about the vivacity of youth. It has a charm built on immature jokes whispered behind a teacher's back and the burn of sprite cranberry sliding down a sore throat. It's a nostalgic high Jisung gets drunk on. It's the beauty of the moment. It's this. 

"LAST ONE THERE'S A ROTTEN EGG!" shouts Changbin, barreling past him, thighs taut for a final burst to victory. 

Adrenaline pulses through Jisung's veins, his tan fingers sunburnt and clenching onto the fraying black foam of his borrowed bike. The handlebars are scalding from the dry California heat. Wet hair clings to his forehead, wind whipping at his puffy cheeks. With a blown-out lung, he narrowly clutches second place. His bike slows to a stop beside a water fountain but he's already downing gulps of his water bottle in quick succession. 

He tries to ignore the obnoxious whooping to his left. 

"I won! I won!" Changbin does the boogie around Hyunjin who alternates between glaring and panting. Minho manages to avoid the teasing despite coming in last. "And for the first time in a long time, Hwang takes the L!"

"As if! First the worst!"

"Third the nerd!"

"You're such a brainlet."

"Bet you don't know what that means."

"I do so!"

"Oh, yeah? Spell it!"

"B-R-A-N-E-L-E-T!"

In the heat of the banter, Hyunjin removes his helmet in one smooth gesture, shaking his hair lightly. The annoying bead of sweat clinging to his bangs drips onto his neck and travels down.

Jisung traces its careful descent into the collar of Hyunjin's shirt with a steady gaze. He wants to die. His heart wants to jump out of his chest and wrap his best friend in the tightest hug in the universe. It's a new and fragile feeling. He's not sure what to name it, too scared to. He begs to drown in the pool of his emotions. 

But he's done with drowning. He's done with falling, clutching air, and being shocked when the clouds slip through his fingers. He's so sick of being lost. For as long as he can, he wants to be a boy—a boy with the coolest best friend with the brightest smile. 

Seungmin collapses on the bench beside him on the verge of passing out. 

Jisung pushes his lukewarm water bottle against his cheek. "Waterfall?"

"Um, thank you."

Before Seungmin could even move to accept it, Hyunjin wedges himself between the two of them, tossing his own water bottle at Seungmin instead. "Drink mine."

"O-Okay."

The urge to roll his eyes is so strong Jisung almost does it. The past few months, Hyunjin has taken upon himself the role of his pseudo-bodyguard, ensuring that there's always "enough room for Jesus" between him and Seungmin at all times. 

"You're too much," Jisung had said after one particularly tense movie night.

"Good," said Hyunjin. "He won't get any more funny ideas."

Though, for as much as he resists, Jisung still feels a guilty sense of satisfaction from the attention. Right now, however, he just pulls Hyunjin back by his sleeve. 

Surprisingly, it's Changbin who breaks it up.

He yells, "Guys! Over here!"

He's standing off to the side of the park near the unpopular hiking trails right where the trees began to clump and crowd. Beside him is a tall opening leading deeper into the forest. "My cousin was telling me about a shortcut to the river! I think this is it!"

"That does not look safe. At all," says Jisung. 

"Where's your sense of adventure?" teases Minho. 

Changbin clucks like a chicken. "Bawk! Bawk!"

"Sorry I don't plan on being kidnapped."

"It'll be quick, Hannie." Hyunjin snaps his helmet back on, bumping his shoulder against Jisung's playfully. "You know you want to."

Jisung says, "If we get abducted by aliens, I know exactly who to blame." But he kicks his bike off the ground anyway. 

.

.

.

A web-like composition of branches and leaves arch over the path, allowing pockets of sunshine to stripe the dirt floor. It's a bumpy road, cheap rubber banging on rocks and twigs, and it's endless as well. 

"Just a little more, guys!" says Changbin, but the trees start to look copy-and-pasted along the horizon. 

"We're getting too far!" says Jisung.

"I swear it's only five minutes away! I promise!"

"You said that five minutes ago!"

Then, in the middle of the bickering, it happens. 

The loud _ skriiing _ of a bell. The screech of grinding metal. And that piercing "SHIT!" 

Seungmin sharply swerves to the right.

Changbin lurches after him instinctively and misses. 

They hear a weak cry before they see Seungmin's head disappear down the hill completely. 

"Minnie!" shrieks Hyunjin. 

They all abandon their bikes to slip and slide after their friend. Seungmin's bright blond hair should be hard to miss amidst the deep green forest, but all Jisung could see is green, green, green. 

"Seungmin!" Minho calls. 

"I'm over here!" Seungmin replies, voice resounding somewhere further away. They find him sitting up, intact except for a nasty scrape on his arm. 

Changbin hugs him to his chest, tears slipping down his cheeks. "Minnie, I'm so sorry. I should've stopped when you guys told me to." 

Seungmin pats him on the head. "My bike was going to break anyway." He lifts a broken chain. "It's not your fault."

"Still." Changbin pulls him up and starts inspecting him thoroughly. He turns Seungmin around and around, patting away debris. Guiltiness wrecks his face. 

Suddenly, Minho shouts, "Guys! I found something!"

"What?"

Jisung turns to what Minho was pointing out and gasps. The trees opened up to a wide clearing the size of a large playground. In the middle of the clearing stood a rectangular building, gray and dirty and flat. A rusty fence encloses the structure, but certain sections were collapsed with just enough space for a person to squeeze through. 

So they do. One by one, they shimmy into the premises of this discovery. It took Changbin and Seungmin longer as the former insisted on helping Seungmin through.

("You're injured!"

"I have a scrape. On my arm."

Eventually, Seungmin gave in.)

The building is even larger now that they're standing right in front of it. There's a sign above the doorless entrance, but the words are so faded that there's no use in trying to read it. 

"Go in," says Jisung. 

"No, you," says Hyunjin.

"I'll go in," says Minho, pushing past both of them to enter. 

They all peek their heads inside, jaws dropping. Rows of metal shelves fill the space. Some are barren while others carry dusty cardboard boxes. They didn't think it'd be possible for something to look larger on the inside, but the makeshift hallways look endless and the ceiling rises miles off the ground. No light touches it but the natural illumination of the sun. 

It looks desolate, it looks abandoned, it looks like the adventure they were searching for, but more importantly, it looks—

"Cool," says Jisung.

"Ditto," repeats Hyunjin, shaking with excitement. "Guys, Operation Codename Kids Next Door is now in action!"

That was their nickname for finding a special hideout known only to them. They first tried to establish a base at Changbin's house, but his mom kept coming into the garage to hand them apple juice. Any other location kept getting discovered by kids from their class or they got kicked out of the premises by local establishment owners. 

Needless to say, they were getting pretty desperate. 

"I think it's time," agrees Minho sagely. 

They all cheer in the heart of the iron fortress. Their own dusty Garden of Eden.

.

.

.

When the clock hits 12:00 PM, Hyunjin and Jisung book it. They wish Felix and Chan goodbye before rushing out with little else but a kiss to the cheek. The couple eyes them suspiciously, but the pair are already speeding away on their bikes, leaving speckles of dirt in their wake. 

The trip to the park is faster than Jisung remembers and it's barely half an hour before they rest their eyes on those cold metal fences. It took a lot longer to find it than the last time, walking too far right or left, but eventually, they successfully mapped out a route to their secret base. Minho, ever the smart one, stacked three stones on top of each other as markers. 

Despite the warehouse's recreational activities being limited, they all managed to find something to do.

Changbin drags Seungmin to scope out the surroundings. For some reason, there's a merry-go-round smack dab in the middle of the backyard. It lacks color—probably scraped out from use—and looks extremely depressing. They reckon that once upon a time, the warehouse used to be a playground where children far and wide came together to make merry. However, adults didn't want fun, they wanted money and demolished the children's precious playground to expand their monetary interests. The merry-go-round remains as the single memory of those youth who refused to stand down when faced with the bleakness of maturity. 

Hyunjin complains that it's too sad of an origin story for their epic hideout. Jisung thinks it's perfect. 

Minho chose to explore indoors, checking each and every box stacked on the shelves. He finds knuts and bolts, wrenches and hammers, and most curiously, he finds rather classic knick-knacks like old records of obscure country artists, crusty signatures of forgotten rock stars, and vintage baseball cards—circa. 1932 Jimmy Foxx, circa. 1952 Andy Pafko, and circa. 1958 Mickey Mantle to name a few. He spends the rest of the day on a cardboard tower, daydreaming of these players he's never heard of. 

Hyunjin, the loon, had brought a collection of brooms and trash bags. Perhaps a testament to his likeness to Felix, but he can't stand the amount of trash and dust in their spot. He forces Jisung to sweep up anything less noteworthy. Thankfully, nothing too gross gets found aside from some string-thin lingerie they handled as if it were a chemical waste.

(Seungmin agreed with the notion of sprucing up the warehouse, spearheading the campaign of its upkeep. Allowance money got spent on cleaning spray and paper towels. They spent two weeks sweeping the floor, wiping down the merry-go-round, and organizing the shelves.)

Jisung never considered himself the boring one of the group, despite popular opinion saying otherwise. He genuinely doesn't find himself boring. But there's something so utterly enrapturing in mundane activities that would bypass other's notice. He drags his fingers along the walls, memorizing the cracks, documenting how the paint crumbles under his gentle touch. He wonders who worked at this warehouse. He wonders if they still come back sometimes if they have their own stories to tell. 

Why was this warehouse built in the middle of the forest? Who built it? Why did they leave? 

He stops upon a huge stylized marking on the wall. He almost labels it as graffiti, but it looks too beautiful. His finger traces the shadows: STRAY. 

It's a single world, so colorful it seems out of place in this desolate wasteland, like a scar on an unblemished body. So he stares and stares and stares until his vision begins to strain. He tilts his head to the left. He tilts his head to the right, but the words don't seem to hold any hidden meaning. 

STRAY.

Is that the name of the company? Jisung starts to get annoyed.

"Hannie!" calls Hyunjin. "The sun's going down! Let's go home! Dad's making kimchi fried rice! Hurry up!"

His stomach growls. Jisung spares one last glance at the mocking word before leaving. 

.

.

.

They start bringing their own baubles to the ruins. At first, it's small trinkets like a lava lamp Minho found in his garage or the poster of Cristiano Ronaldo Hyunjin stole from his dad or even Changbin's pile of miscellaneous board game his mom insisted he got rid of, but he didn't want to. 

(Which devolved into the most intense game of Spiderman Sorry Sliders Jisung ever had the pleasure to witness.)

But inevitably, their commodities escalate in scale. They adopt ripped rugs and ugly chairs people abandoned on the sidewalk and arrange them inside the warehouse like crop circles. Seungmin's favorite rug is one torn straight from the streets of Aladdin, a pretty Persian blue and a golden royal design that would make the best of kings envious. Jisung's personal favorite addition is a water bean bag Changbin nabbed from his cousin's treehouse. He can spend hours relaxing as the water squished him on all sides. 

("Are you sure your cousin won't get mad we stole his bean bag?" asks Hyunjin.

"I don't think my cousin cares," replies Changbin.

"I think your cousin is a god," says Jisung, his entire body engulfed by the bean bag.

He chokes on a Cheeto when Hyunjin's body slams into him immediately after.)

They bring chapter books, DC comics, and shoujo manga, a clock that's an hour off, colored origami paper, and a tiny children's mattress wrapped with clean linen sheets. They stack pillows in the shape of sausages, tape up glow-in-the-dark stars, and a Polaroid camera they don't know how to use. They buy cheap spray paint and have a field day on the walls. 

"Can we stop with the penises?" Seungmin politely requests. He has an artistic vision for the warehouse, picturing a mural in all shades of the rainbow that would strike awe in all the visitors who may stumble upon their spot on accident. They'd be like ancient Egyptians and the hieroglyphs. 

Hyunjin and Minho proceed to draw major dongs all over his masterpiece. 

"Why did I even bother?"

"Yeah," says Minho, adding far more detail than necessary, "Why did you?"

By the end of the day, the entire left wall is covered with flowers, profanity, and stick-figure comics that are a blatant rip off of internet memes. 

Jisung shakes his can, tempted to vandalize the bold "STRAY."

He presses down and it exhales with a pathetic hiss. 

Empty. 

.

.

.

It's rare that any of them are able to stick around until dusk. Most of their parents impose a strict curfew that kept them from staying out too long, most except two: Minho and Jisung whose parents couldn't care less as long as they were breathing. And even then, that was a loose requirement.

It's even rarer that this specific combination of friends was left alone together. It's awkward, at least on Jisung's behalf who knew little else about his friend other than he likes dancing, movies, and being right. He knows that despite the cold facade he puts up, he's kind and despite his fear of heights, he's brave too. He has qualities that Jisung wants but doesn't possess, that he admires in Minho. 

The moon watches the two boys. Lights refract off the windows of the warehouse, perfectly illuminating the origami papers folded between Jisung's fingers. They've been collecting dust on the shelves for the past few weeks, probably neglected for longer than that. They were hand-me-downs from Seungmin's uncle who bought them from a souvenir in Japan. 

Jisung rolls onto his back, bending the end of the flowery print. 

Minho tilts his head down at him. He's cross-legged on the mattress, slightly elevated. "What's that supposed to be?"

Jisung holds it up. "Isn't it obvious? It's a whale." He moves his hands up and down to make his creation swim through the air.

"Lame." Minho snags a new sheet. "Watch and learn."

Miffed, Jisung rolls onto his stomach and reluctantly follows Minho's soft instructions. It's more intricate than anything he's done before—whales, that is—and in the end, he's not too sure what on Earth it's supposed to be. 

He fiddles with the spiky parts. "Is it an octopus?"

"It's a crane, dummy."

"Is it supposed to look broken?"

Minho shakes his head. "You did it wrong." He uncups his hands to unveil his masterpiece. A more organized, more delicate paper crane rests in the center of his palms. 

It's as quiet and elegant as its creator. Another quality Jisung appreciated about Minho. He finds comfort in the innate softness to him, more so than many tended to believe. 

Jisung attempts at the crane a few more times, fumbling terribly. Minho nudges him here and there. 

"You know, there's a story about these cranes," says Minho once they collectively amass around twenty. He picks one up by the wing and dangles it close to his eye. "Do you know it?"

"Like... a spooky one?"

"No, a nice one."

"You never tell nice stories." 

"This one's nice, I promise."

Jisung holds out his pinky and Minho wraps it with his own. 

"It's from Japan. There's a legend that if you fold a thousand paper cranes, the gods will grant you a wish."

"Have you ever tried it? Making a wish?" asks Jisung.

Minho relaxes into the mattress. "Yeah. I wish for a lot of things. My first wish was to be a dancer, like a real one." He laughs. "But that's stupid, so I wish for things like sneakers now."

"That's not stupid."

"What?"

"Being a dancer. That's a really good wish. You're good at dancing."

"Tell my parents that. They keep telling me I'm going to take over the family business. Building chairs aren't really my thing, but... it is what it is."

Jisung sits up, facing Minho. Minho's face is covered by his arms wrapped tight around his body. "Changbin taught me something really cool."

"Can't be that cool. It's Changbin."

Jisung nudges his shoulder against him. "I promise."

"...What'd he say?"

"He told me we have choices. You choose your life, not your parents."

"Wow. What Disney show did you rip that off of?"

"I'm serious."

Soon, it becomes too dark to see how Minho scrunches his face, but he knows this particular habit by heart. "It's not easy."

Jisung's gaze traces the origami cranes. He focuses on a little family of three. The smallest one's his first attempt, wing torn and brittle. He's reminded of the cold floor of a basement. Cologne. The dullness he's been ignoring all summer throbs to life.

"No. It isn't."

There's a discontent silence between them.

"What about you? What'd you wish for?" Minho asks, sitting up straighter now. 

Jisung shrugs. He ignores the burn of longing in his chest. The hands, the help, the hugs; he lets it pass. "I guess I'd wish for something I can have."

Hesitance. 

"Like... Hyunjin?"

His body tenses. He forgets, sometimes, that Minho is the only person who understands. It's strange. They never went out of their way to speak to each other, but Minho was the only person he could think of after that night on the swings. But how could he forget those reassuring murmurs which comforted him as he cried into the phone, suddenly unsure of himself, suddenly scared. 

"No. Not Hyunjin at all," he says, turning away.

"Do you... Will you tell him about..."

"Don't," Jisung closes his eyes, "Don't say it. Please."

"Not saying it doesn't mean it's not true."

"Minho. _ Please." _

"I'm sorry." 

"No, it's not your fault. It's mine for being... like this. I don't want to be that boy. I want to be me for once."

Minho frowns. "You are you."

Jisung shakes his head, burying his face into his knees. "No. I'm not."

If Minho says anything else, he ignores it. He lifts his face and stares out the window at the sky until the last remnants of daylight dive into the horizon line. A twinkle slashes through the midnight. 

"A shooting star," whispers Jisung. "Make a wish."

"No. I can't trust the stars. They just come and go. I like the cranes more because I can have my wish as long as I work for it." Minho hands him a crane. 

They spend the rest of the night arranging the small and crooked origami cranes on the shelves. 

.

.

.

In hindsight, the fall was nothing extraordinary. He's been falling for as long as he remembered. 

It was like pieces of a puzzle were finally aligning in the crevices that never quite fit. They were hidden behind his heart protected by the threat of curled firsts on honey skin, the seeds of purple flowers planted on a white canvas. They have no reason to hide now. 

Jisung thinks there wasn't a moment in his life where he wasn't suspended in this constant state of vertigo, unable to right himself amidst this spinning dizziness he's been swimming in since he caught eyes with a blazing comet, unable to clutch onto a solid surface as he slipped and slipped down the smudged sky. It's a whirling sensation—free-falling, but it's not unfamiliar. 

He's been falling for years, hypnotized by starry gazes and a charming smile. 

Hyunjin lies beside him in bed, legs tangled and hands so close they could touch. His eyes are closed, but Jisung knows he's not sleeping. 

"What'd you and Minho do today?" he asks pretty, pretty lips moving lazily. 

Jisung turns on his side. "We made paper cranes." A stray eyelash falls on Hyunjin's cheek. His fingers twitch to remove it. "I learned that if you make a thousand paper cranes, your wish can come true."

"Hmm."

"Do you know what you'd wish for?" Jisung desperately wants to know. 

Hyunjin's pinky meets his, interlocking them together. His eyes open and Jisung _ can't _ look away.

"I wish you had everything you ever wanted."

His breath catches in his throat. "Thank you."

"And you? What would you wish for?"

"I'd wish for..." Jisung hesitates. 

Hyunjin's eyes droop and his breathing slows. Jisung stares, waiting for any sign of wakefulness, finding nothing but sweet dreams. He tugs the blanket further up Hyunjin's body and buries himself inside. Their pinkies are still linked. 

_ I like you. I like you. I like you. _

He mouths it but doesn't dare say it aloud. He lets the tempting pull of exhaustion drag him to sleep, entertaining thoughts of a life where it's easier to admit. 

* * *

_ I'd wish for you. _

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Kinda clunky cuz I haven't written creatively in a year. I had this all written out a year ago and lost steam in the editing process. Forgot about it, but I had a sudden bout of productivity and figured I might as well push through with this. Here is the result! 
> 
> *I was feeling in a description-y mood :P The place they find is based off the set of Astronaut, hence the merry-go-round, fences, and warehouse.


End file.
